


Bucky Barnes and the Descendant of Chaos

by squadrickchestopher



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Indiana Jones Fusion, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anal Sex, Ancient Egyptian Literature & Mythology, Antisemitism, Archeologist Bucky Barnes, BAMF Clint Barton, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Chases, Clint Barton & Natasha Romanov Friendship, Coercion, Hydra (Marvel), Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jewish Bucky Barnes, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Nazis, POV Bucky Barnes, Past Domestic Violence, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Threats of Self Harm, Threats of Violence, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, archeology, because Nazis, raiders-style face melting, tomb raider Clint Barton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:29:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 50,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27886810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squadrickchestopher/pseuds/squadrickchestopher
Summary: World-renowned archeologist Dr. Bucky Barnes gets sent to Thinis, a recently uncovered Ancient Egyptian city. He's supposed to be helping—digging in the dirt, unearthing history, teaching grad students. Instead, he suddenly finds himself on a wild adventure involving a chaotic tomb raider, an ancient and powerful scepter, and a group of Nazis intent on destroying the world.An Indiana Jones AU.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 118
Kudos: 166
Collections: Charity Hawktion 2020





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clintscoffeepot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clintscoffeepot/gifts).



> Please note: I am not an archeologist. I am not even really a history person. I played _very_ fast and loose with Egyptian mythology here, and there are some inaccuracies in the timelines and such—particularly where/when cities were discovered, artifacts, etc. I'm aware of these, and while I normally like things to be accurate...for this one, I just kinda threw up my hands and let the boys have fun. I hope you have fun with it as well. 
> 
> This is my 2020 Hawktion gift for clintscoffeepot. <3 love ya darling.

He should not be here.

Atemu can feel the certainty of that in his bones, but he does not care. There is an army at his gates, threatening everything he loves. This is not the time to be afraid of myths and shadows.

He finds the scepter where the priests said he would. Everything else underneath this temple is dusty, covered in cobwebs and spiders, but this—this is not. It’s laying on a stone shelf, tucked into a darkened alcove, nearly too high for him to reach. He manages anyway, grabbing it and bringing it down to the ground, thumbing over the stylized animal head at the top, marveling over how the material seems to both absorb the torchlight and reflect it at the same time. He thinks he can hear faint screams in the distance as he touches it, the tormented sounds of the long dead.

Atemu shivers, then hurries back out into the light, away from the darkness.

He takes it back to his room. Everything is set up already—the summoning glyphs, the candles, the circle. He steels himself, stepping into the circle and gripping his knife in one hand, the scepter in the other.

“Prince Atemu,” says a voice behind him.“What are you doing?”

“Saving us,” he says without turning around.

“This is not the way—”

“This is the only way.” He slices his arm, wincing as the blood rolls down his skin. Then he turns, looking at the only person he’s ever truly loved. “You have to understand.”

Maat steps closer, hands out. “Atemu. Making a deal with chaos, with _Set_ —the gods will punish us.”

“They’re already punishing us.” Atemu gestures at the balcony, where the encroaching army can be seen. “This is the only way to save everyone.”

_To save you,_ he adds in his own mind, but he thinks Maat might hear it anyway. His face creases with concern, with heartache, with longing—

But then he shakes his head again. “Please, Atemu. We can fight them.”

“We’ll lose,” Atemu says. “We have already lost. This is only a matter of time, Maat. Which is worse, making a deal with chaos? Or doing nothing, knowing that our city will be ransacked? Our women and children raped and murdered? Our officers slaughtered for sport?” He shakes his head. “This is the only way. I will summon Set, and I will strike a deal for us all.”

“Let me do it,” Maat says, reaching for him.

Atemu shakes his head. “I’m of the royal bloodline, Maat. It has to be me. You know this.”

He doesn’t give Maat a chance to argue further. He makes two more cuts along his arm, parallel to the first, and tosses the knife to the side, gripping the scepter with both hands. “With my pain, I summon thee. With my knife, I summon thee. With my blood, I summon thee. Come forth unto me...Set.”

There’s a flash of light, and then a terrifying visage appears in front of him. Atemu can’t tell if it’s a man, or an animal, or some kind of mix in between. The figure flickers, wavering between a human-shaped face and a longer, curved snout with rectangular ears and cruel, calculating eyes. Behind him, a forked tail waves in the air with a menacing aura.

A chuckle breaks the silence, rife with cold amusement and condescension. “Well,” says the figure. “The prince Atemu summons me on the night of his doom. This is...interesting.”

“My lord,” Atemu says, sinking to his knees. “My city is about to be overrun by barbarians.”

Set laughs. “Is that so?”

Atemu forces himself not to look at Maat. “Please. We need help.”

“Mm.” Set tilts his head. “And what will you offer me in exchange?”

“Anything.”

Set studies him for a moment. Then he claps his hands, the sound of it loud and booming. Darkness immediately falls in the circle, thick and impenetrable. Atemu cries out, his voice sounding strange and muffled to his ears.

“Anything,” Set says, crossing his arms, “is a wide range of things.” He smirks, or at least Atemu thinks he does. “I could ask for your soul. Or a limb. Or your firstborn child. Are you really prepared to offer _anything_?”

“I am,” Atemu says simply, gripping the scepter tightly. It’s the only semblance of control he has over the god—as long as it’s in his hand, he’s safe from harm. That’s what the priests told him.

“How noble of you,” Set mocks. “But let us be honest with each other, Prince Atemu. You don’t want the whole city saved, do you? You want your lover safe. You don’t care what happens to _them_ , so long as nothing happens to him.” Set smiles. It’s not friendly. “Nothing to be ashamed of. We all want to keep our loved ones safe.”

Atemu shivers at the coldness in his voice. “Yes,” he admits. “I want Maat safe. More than anything else.”

Set puts a hand on Atemu’s shoulder, his fingernails digging in. “So if I keep your lover safe, you will give me...anything?”

There is so much danger in those words. This is stupid, Atemu knows. Striking a deal with a chaos god will lead to nothing but heartache and trouble in the end. He _knows_ this.

But there’s no other answer. What would he give to keep Maat safe?

_Anything_.

He nods once, short and sharp, and Set flashes a cruel smile.

“So be it,” he says. His hand grips Atemu’s chin, forcing his gaze up. He starts chanting in another language, something foreign. It rings wrong in Atemu’s ears, sending shivers down his spine, making his skin feel like fire-ants are crawling all over it—

The darkness dissipates, revealing the room. Set lets go of Atemu, stepping backwards. He looks around the room, meeting Maat’s gaze with a quiet smirk. Then he gestures to the floor. “Break the circle.”

“I—” Atemu hesitates. The priest told him not to, said it was one of the most important things. _To contain Set, the circle must remain unbroken. If it is broken, you put the whole world at risk._

“Break it, mortal.” Set commands. “ _Now_.”

Maat shakes his head frantically. “Don’t,” he says. “Please—Atemu—”

“I have to,” Atemu whispers, and he scrapes the staff over one of the glyphs, making it illegible. The moment he does so, a wind begins to blow, whipping at his clothes, sending a chill through the room.

When it dies down, the first Atemu notices is the screams—loud and piercing, echoing across the desert plains. He runs to the balcony, staring out at the distant fires. There’s a sick feeling in his stomach. He asked for this, he knows, but those _screams_ — “What are you doing to them?”

Set strolls up next to him. “Oh,” he says. “Just causing a little chaos.” He puts a clawed hand on Atemu’s shoulder, like they’re casual friends. “Humans. Always get so panicky whenever they meet an army of undead. It’s charming, really.” His grip tightens, and he pulls Atemu back into the room. “And now my price.”

“My lord—”

“I will take you,” Set says. “You are commander of the armies here, are you not?” Atemu nods. “You will command my armies. And as for you...” He turns to Maat, that cruel smile flickering over his features. “I think I will take you as well.”

“But—” Atemu looks at Maat, who looks just as horrified. “But my lord—you said he’d be safe—”

“And he will be,” Set says, moving across the room and throwing an arm around Maat’s shoulder. “He will be my consort. Both of you, safe from harm. Safe from the ravages of time, even.” He offers a condescending smile. “Isn’t that what you wanted? To live forever with your lover?”

“I—” Atemu shakes his head. This isn’t what he wanted. It’s not—none of this is what he wanted, or expected. Maat was right, he shouldn’t have tried this. What was he thinking?

He casts a frantic look at Maat. With the circle broken, there’s only one thing he can do, and it’s even more dangerous than summoning Set in the first place. He raises the scepter up, holding it to the heavens. _Break the scepter. Break his power. Banish him to the underworld again._

“Come now,” Set says, head tilting, smile fading. “What’s this?”

There’s no time for words, no time to try anything else, no time to get Maat a safe distance away. _Horus, give me strength,_ he thinks, and slams the sceptre down, cracking the head against the stone at his feet. The scepter breaks, the head of it bouncing out of the circle towards the far antechamber, the staff still clenched in his hand.

Set roars, the sound loud enough to send both Atemu and Maat to their knees. The castle rumbles, the floor shaking, dust falling from the ceiling. Then Set is pointing at him, one finger extended, his form flickering too fast to see.

“You will regret this,” he hisses, already melting into the shadows again. “You have made yourself an enemy, Prince Atemu. I curse you and your descendants with chaos and you shall find no rest, not even in death, for I will always be there.”

He makes a complex gesture with one hand, and the room around Atemu vanishes. He suddenly finds himself on a hilltop outside the city, the chill wind of the desert whipping at his thin clothes.

“No,” he says, spinning towards the city, and then he shouts it. “ _No_!”

In the distance, the palace stands, bright and gleaming in the moonlight, a symbol of pride. A symbol of peace, of freedom, of humanity—

Then there’s a flash of light, bright and brilliant, and a concussive sound that knocks Atemu to the ground, stealing the breath from his lungs.

_Maat_ , he thinks, desperate and pained, and loses consciousness just as the palace begins to collapse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by the most wonderful [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!
> 
> Updates Fridays!


	2. Chapter One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dig site is everything he could’ve imagined. Bucky is astonished at the amount of excavating they’ve managed to do, practically plastering his nose to the window as they drive through.

Bucky is in the middle of grading essays when Steve bursts into his office with an armful of papers and a wild, delighted expression on his face. “They found it,” he says, dropping papers onto Bucky’s desk, ignoring the little cry of dismay. “They _found_ it.”

“They found what?”

“Thinis.”

Bucky stares at him, essays immediately forgotten. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not.” Steve digs through his pile, handing him a piece of paper. “Here. On the map. There.”

Bucky takes it, excitement pouring through him. “You’re joking,” he says again, staring at the map. “I—you—how do you know?”

“Sam Wilson called from Egypt. His team found it.” He drops an envelope on the desk. “They’ve been excavating it for a month now—lots of secrecy wrapped around it. But they’ve gotten permission to bring on some experts, and he specifically asked for you.” He gestures to the envelope. “That’s a plane ticket, and some money. I’ve already spoken with Pepper, you’re on paid sabbatical until they don’t need your help anymore.”

“Steve—”

“Peggy will be taking over your classes. You’re set to leave in the morning. I suggest you get home and get packing.” Steve beams at him. “I expect updates weekly.”

“Yes, certainly.” Bucky jumps to his feet, digging out the essays. “I—I’ll take these with, mail them back when I’m done.” He shakes Steve’s hand, a brilliant smile blooming across his face. “Thank you, Steve. This is incredible.”

“Fly safe, Bucky. Have fun.”

Three days and several plane rides later, Bucky finds himself in Egypt, tilting the brim of his hat down against the sun. A red-haired woman wearing dark pants and a white linen shirt meets him at the tarmac, offering a hand and a brilliant smile. “Dr. Barnes, welcome! I’m Wanda, I’m Dr. Wilson’s assistant. We’re so glad you could join us!”

“Call me Bucky,” Bucky says, slinging his bag over his shoulder and shaking her hand. “ I appreciate the invite. I did my doctoral thesis on Thinis, you know. I always suspected it was in this area.”

“Yes, it was actually your research that led us here. Which is why as soon as our sponsors allowed us to bring in outside help, we reached out to you. They insisted on supplying their own man as well, but since it was your idea in the first place, we made sure they offered a space to you as well.” Wanda takes his suitcase and puts it in the trunk of the car. “And I’m a big fan of your work, you know. Your success in finding the Eye of Shamash? I couldn’t believe it. I was still in school then, and my archeology professors were in an absolute uproar about it.”

“It took a team effort, but I’m glad we found it. You read the paper, then?”

“Oh yes. Is it true the temple collapsed afterwards?”

Bucky nods as he gets in. “Unfortunately. There was an earthquake, and the temple wasn’t able to hold up, structurally. We managed to save most of the artifacts, but there were several whole rooms that collapsed. It was a rough day.” He climbs in the car and pulls the door shut.

“I bet,” Wanda gets in the other side and starts the engine. “Well. I can take you directly to the dig site, if you’d like? Or I can take you to your hotel first, let you freshen up a little. I’m sure the time zone change has you a little off balance.”

“Hotel, please,” Bucky says. “Just so I can change into my field clothes. I slept on the plane.” He straightens his semi-wrinkled suit jacket with a tug and smiles sheepishly at her. 

“Absolutely.”

She drives him to a hotel in Girga, pulling up in front of a building that’s a lot nicer than he’s used to staying during excavations. At his raised eyebrow, Wanda says, “Our sponsors are well-funded.”

Bucky nods. “Who _is_ doing the funding? Steve was pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing, said he couldn’t talk about it.”

“He can’t,” she says. “We’re under strict contract not to discuss it. But rest assured that you’ll want for nothing. And I’m on loan as your personal assistant for the duration, so if you have anything you need, come to me, and I’ll take care of it.”

She leads him inside the hotel, checking in at the front desk and handing him a key. “I’ll be waiting in the lobby,” she assures him. “Take all the time you need.”

Bucky’s suite is bigger than his apartment in Connecticut, something that amuses him more than anything. He’s not really an opulent kind of guy, but if someone else is footing the bill, well...it doesn’t hurt to enjoy it. So he briefly washes up, then hangs up his suit and pulls on his field clothes before shouldering his bag and going back out to the lobby. He should eat something, he knows, but right now he’s more excited to see the dig site than anything else.

Wanda gestures at the holster and whip. “You always carry those on fieldwork?”

“Comes in handy,” he says. “Both of them, really. I’d rather carry them and not need them.” He adjusts his hat. “Shall we, then?”

“Certainly,” she says, and leads him back out to the car.

The dig site is everything he could’ve imagined. Bucky is astonished at the amount of excavating they’ve managed to do, practically plastering his nose to the window as they drive through. “You’ve only had a month?” he asks. “This...this is incredible. This looks like half a year’s worth of work.”

“We’ve been able to bring in a significant amount of outside help,” she says, gesturing to the groups of people around them. “Locals and such. They’re helping with the digging, and then we’re leaving the actual technical work to our trained staff. Most of us are students. Dr. Wilson is in charge of the dig, and then Brock Rumlow is who the sponsors wanted brought on. You’ll be the only other graduated professional on site.”

“As long as everyone knows what they’re doing,” Bucky says. “That’s my main concern. I don’t want to lose any pieces of the city because someone went digging where they shouldn’t.”

“Oh no, everyone’s supervised,” Wanda assures him. “We all want this to go well. This is a major find.” She pulls the car up outside a large tent. “This is us. I’ll introduce you to Dr. Wilson, and then he’ll direct you where he needs you.”

Dr. Wilson turns out to be a tall black man with a steady voice and a brilliant smile. “Dr. Barnes,” he says, offering a hand. “I can’t tell you what a pleasure it is to have you on site here.”

“Call me Bucky,” Bucky says, shaking it. “Thank you for the invitation. I’m honored.”

“No, it’s us who should be honored. I’m sure Wanda’s told you, but our whole team has been looking forward to this. We’ve all read your work extensively, particularly concerning Thinis.”

“Well, I’m looking forward to getting started. What do you have so far?”

Dr. Wilson directs him towards a table in the center of a tent. “We’ve been working up a map here,” he says. “So far, we’ve found the edges of the city for certain, and also the palace. Much of the structure was collapsed, but we’ve been able to find some parts that are still standing, and we’re doing our best to clear rubble away. We actually uncovered what we think is the throne room.” He gestures. “I can take you there, if you’d like? We haven’t gone in yet.”

Bucky nods. “I would love that, yes.”

Dr. Wilson gestures. “I’ll drive you,” he says. “Wanda, if you wouldn’t mind checking on Pietro and the others—they uncovered a bathhouse, and I think they’re a little overenthusiastic about it. Go make sure they’re not damaging the reliefs, please?”

Wanda sighs and nods, disappearing out a corner of the tent. Dr. Wilson watches her go, then turns back to Bucky. “Grad students,” he says with a sigh. “I’m sure you understand.”

“I do,” Bucky agrees. “I understand perfectly.”

They climb in the jeep and start driving, carefully navigating through the crowds. Bucky holds onto his hat, watching the people move around.

“How’s site security?” he shouts over the wind. “With all these people?”

“We do our best,” Wilson shouts back. “There’s only one road in and out of the site, and every man is screened before they leave. We also have security staff doing patrols on the more tempting sites.”

Bucky nods. He’s had trouble with grave robbers before, although they usually come at night when they can keep to the shadows. He’s lost more than one valuable artifact to the black market before.

The palace is half-collapsed and buried in sand, but Bucky can see where they’ve been digging into the entrance. Several dozen people are running around with shovels and buckets, and one of them comes up to the jeep as they approach.

“Dr. Wilson,” he says excitedly, then beams at Bucky. “Oh! Dr. Barnes, you made it!”

“This is Scott Lang,” Dr. Wilson says. “One of my grad students.”

Scott shakes Bucky’s hand. “We uncovered the rest of the door,” he says. “It’s definitely the throne room.”

Dr. Wilson beams. “Excellent. Seems like you’ve arrived just in time, Dr. Barnes!”

They climb out of the jeep and head down the slope to the palace entrance. Bucky stares around eagerly, taking it all in. “Your sponsors should be commended,” he says. “This is an impressive amount of work for a month.”

“Yes, the unlimited funding helps a lot. They were quite desperate to uncover this site, and the palace in particular.”

Bucky tilts his head. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I’m not sure. I didn’t question it. I was too grateful to have the money.”

They pass a relief, and Bucky slows to study the paintings. It’s surprisingly well-preserved for having been buried in sand for hundreds of years. The paint is peeling, but it clearly depicts some kind of ceremony. He could stay and study this alone for hours, really, and can’t hold back his grin of delight at the thought.

“Lots of history,” Dr. Wilson agrees. “I know.” He gently tugs Bucky’s arm. “This way. I want your opinion on the throne room doors. We’ll need help opening them.”

“It might be blocked by rubble,” Bucky warns. “There was some kind of incident here. An earthquake, maybe. All accounts point to some kind of explosion. A large portion of the palace collapsed.”

“We’ve been clearing out rubble as much as we can,” Dr. Wilson says. “It’s a delicate process—we don’t want any portions to collapse further. We could use your expertise on that as well. I know that happened in Sumeria.”

Bucky nods. “Took us almost a year to clear it, and then we ran out of funding, unfortunately.”

“Well, that won’t be a problem here.” Dr. Wilson turns another corner, then gestures to the grand double doors. “The throne room.”

Bucky climbs the steps and examines the doors. They’re beautifully made, limestone doors with carefully painted murals of the pharaoh seated on his throne, surrounded by hieroglyphics referring to the gods. He walks the full length, studying them intently. “I think we’ll have to find another way in,” he says, pointing up. “See how the doorjamb is collapsing? I’m afraid if we move the doors or try to open them, the rest of this is going to come down. We’ll have to find another entrance.”

“I was afraid of that,” Dr. Wilson sighs. “Well. That makes sense. We’re working on excavating another hallway that looks promising. I’ll take you there.”

He leads Bucky to where a group of men are carefully removing rubble, carting it away from the hallways and over to a wagon waiting in a previously cleared space. “I’ll leave you to supervise,” Dr. Wilson says. “I’m going to go discuss something with Scott.” He claps Bucky on the shoulder. “It’s good to have you, Dr. Barnes.”

“Happy to help,” Bucky says, attention already on the men moving rocks.

One of them straightens up, wiping a hand across his sweaty forehead. “Hi,” he says, offering a sunny grin to Bucky. “You here to dust off rocks?”

“I’m here to preserve history,” Bucky corrects.

“Ah.” He looks back at the rest of them. “Well. Welcome to the show.” He leans down and picks up a chunk of stone. He’s shirtless—most are—and his muscles flex in a way that Bucky finds oddly distracting. “Feel free to help out.”

The words are challenging, like he thinks Bucky’s too prissy to get his hands dirty. Bucky scowls at him, then leans down and grabs another chunk of rock. He grunts with the effort, straightening up and looking the man in the eye. “You were saying?”

The man grins. “Alright then,” he says, nodding to the wagon. “Put it over here, tough guy.”

“My name is Dr. Barnes.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m...Henry.”

There’s an obvious hesitation that makes Bucky think that’s not really his name, but honestly, he doesn’t care. As long as “Henry” doesn’t break anything, he can call himself whatever he wants.

They drop the rocks off and go back for more. Bucky keeps an eye on the group, but this is pretty basic work, and everyone seems to be doing a careful job. He loses himself in the rhythm of it, enjoying the hard work after the days of sitting and traveling.

Several hours later, a man dressed in a gleaming white suit walks into the hallway, eyeing the sweaty group of them with vague disgust. “I’m looking for Dr. Barnes,” he says.

Bucky dusts off his hand on his pants. “That’ll be me,” he says, offering it. “You are?”

“Brock Rumlow.” He shakes it, a distasteful look still on his face. “The sponsors sent me to keep an eye on things. What’s going on here?”

“We’re just clearing the hallway,” Bucky says. “Dr. Wilson seems to think this might be another way into the throne room.” He glances around, noting that Henry seems to have disappeared. “Are you here to help?”

Rumlow shakes his head. “No. But my employers are looking for a particular artifact.” He pulls out a small notebook and holds it out to Bucky, displaying a drawing of what looks like a dog’s head. It has a curved nose, with rectangular ears, and—

“Oh,” Bucky says. “This—this is the top of a _Was-_ sceptre, correct?”

Rumlow looks vaguely surprised. “Yes, actually.” He takes the book back. “If you see anything that might be that, please fetch me immediately. They’re willing to pay quite handsomely for it.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “That’s a pretty small artifact. I’ll keep an eye out, but to find something like that—well, I wouldn’t get my hopes up. Why are they looking for it?”

“I can’t tell you that,” Rumlow says in a tone that suggests he wouldn’t even if he could. “I’m just telling you so you can look out for it. That’s all.” He looks behind Bucky at the group of sweaty, disheveled men, then adds, “Also, it’s nearly sundown. We typically dismiss the help at this point. Overtime, you know.”

Bucky nods, bristling a little at his rude words. “I’ll let them know. Are you an archeologist as well, Mr. Rumlow?”

“I am,” Rumlow says. “Not as well known as you are, I’m afraid, but I do my best.” He offers Bucky a condescending smile, and turns to leave.

“I hate that guy,” Henry mutters, suddenly appearing next to Bucky. “He’s such an asshole.”

Bucky startles. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Bathroom.” Henry rubs his nose. “I’ve met him before—Rumlow. Seriously, he’s not worth the time. Thinks he’s better than everyone else because he has good connections. He’s just a terrible person, really, and he hangs out with terrible people.” He glances at Bucky. “Kinda thought you’d be the same, but you’re pretty decent, honestly.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Why, because I’m willing to move rocks?”

“Because you don’t treat people like they’re less than you,” Henry says, and gestures to the group. “Might want to tell them to knock off, though. A lot of ‘em got families to get back to. I’m sure they’d like to get paid and go home.”

“Do you?”

“Want to get paid? Of course. Honest day’s labor and all.” He grins. “If you’re asking about family, the answer’s no. I’m just here for the work.”

His smile is really more charming than it has any right to be. Bucky finds himself a little entranced, and he has to shake himself to break the spell. “Right. Well. If you’ll excuse me...” He brushes past Henry to speak to the men, thanking them for their work and dismissing them.

Henry looks impressed. “You speak Arabic, huh?”

“I speak twenty-seven languages,” Bucky says, watching them all file out. “And read several more.”

“Well, well. Look who’s fancy.” He grins again and gestures to the exit. “Shall we?”

Bucky leads the way out. Dr. Wilson and Wanda both are waiting for him at the palace entrance, along with Rumlow. Henry makes a short noise of annoyance. “See you tomorrow,” he says, and vanishes into the rapidly falling darkness.

“Dr. Barnes!” Wanda says, gesturing at the jeep. “Come on in, we have a dinner already set up.”

Bucky glances in the direction Henry went, feeling an odd urge to follow him. After a moment, he shakes that off too, then hops in the jeep. “Sounds excellent,” he says, holding his hat for safekeeping. “I’m starving. I would love something to eat.”

Dinner turns out to be a large assortment of food laid out on the map table in the main tent. Bucky takes a seat and gratefully starts dishing up food, feeling the hunger gnawing in his gut. To his slight dismay, Rumlow sits on his other side. “So,” he says. “What do you think of the site so far?”

“Seems well-run,” Bucky says. He doesn’t like this guy, but if he’s a direct line to the sponsors, Bucky can’t afford to piss him off. “I like that in a site. And so much has already been excavated; I’m very impressed with the efforts here.”

His words seem to please Rumlow. “Yes, well. We have a vested interest in this site.”

“How did you find it?”

“Your paper,” Rumlow says. “And some educated guessing on Dr. Wilson’s part.”

Dr. Wilson grins. “It was a hope and a prayer, really,” he says. “We just kind of...started digging in the desert, for lack of a better description. There were some household artifacts found not far from here that seemed to indicate a civilization had at least been in this area. From there we extrapolated, and made some guesses, and then once we started finding the outer edge of the city, we knew were were on the right track.”

“You’ve done incredible work,” Bucky says honestly. “I’m honored to be here and helping. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

There’s more talking after that, and the grad students pepper him with endless questions. Bucky does his best to answer. He’s well aware that despite his best efforts, some of his adventures have crossed into the more mystical territory, and he tries to take this opportunity to dispel the more amusing rumors that have apparently cropped up.

“Look,” he finally says, taking a sip of his wine. “Archeology is the search for facts. I know a lot of what you’ve heard sounds like it belongs in a storybook, but there’s really nothing more to it than what I told you. Forget any ideas you’ve had about lost cities, or exotic travel, or digging up the world. We don’t follow maps to buried treasure, and ‘X’ never, ever marks the spot. Seventy percent of all archeology is done in the library.”

“We’re sitting in a lost city,” Rumlow says, sipping his whiskey. He’s relaxing in his chair, sprawled in it like he owns it. “So that sort of ruins that argument a bit, doesn’t it?”

“This city wasn’t lost,” Bucky says dismissively. “We knew it existed, we just weren’t sure where. I’m just trying to clear up some of the myths around what I—what _we_ —do. This isn’t about hunting for treasure, it’s about preserving history.”

“Mmm,” Rumlow says. “Well. You should be having a grand time here, then. Plenty of history for you to preserve.”

“I’m very glad to be here, yes.” Bucky tries to keep his voice neutral. He does not like this man at all. There’s something...off about him. Something cruel, barely concealed underneath the polite exterior. “Did you find the artifact you were looking for?”

“No,” Rumlow sighs. “Unfortunately not. But this is a big area. We’ll keep looking.”

“You might have more luck in a temple,” Bucky says. “ _Was_ -sceptres were carried by priests as well as pharaohs. I suspect if you’re looking for that, that’ll be the best place to start.”

“We’re getting close to a temple, we think,” Dr. Wilson adds. “On the south side. We’re still excavating. I expect we’ll know more within a week.”

Rumlow seems to turn this information over in his head, then nods. “I’ll head over there tomorrow, then. Thank you.”

The conversation lulls, after that, and eventually Wanda nudges Bucky. “You ready to go?”

“Yes,” he says, grabbing his bag. He makes his goodbyes to the group, then follows Wanda out to the car.

He nearly falls asleep on the way back, his body exhausted from the traveling and the work. Wanda pulls up to the hotel and he offers her a sleepy smile. “Thank you, Wanda.”

“I’ll be out here at eight tomorrow,” she says. “Have a good night, Dr. Barnes.”

Bucky gets out of the car and goes in, stopping by the front desk to set up a wake-up call. Then he practically falls into his bed, not even taking the time to shower. He’s so worn out and exhausted that he passes out right away, and doesn’t wake up until the piercing ring of the phone pulls him out of it in the morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta’ed by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	3. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky’s fingers twitch towards his gun. It’d be stupid to draw it now, especially considering that he has no idea what’s going on. But he doesn’t like the position they’re in, and there’s a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that’s served him well in the past. A little sense that says _something is about to go very wrong here._

Bucky happily passes the next week in a daze. He loves what he does more than just about anything else in the world, and this—this is his happy place. Uncovering history. Solving mysteries. It’s like putting together a particularly difficult puzzle, except instead of just a picture, he’s left with a new story. It’s part of why he got into archeology in the first place. There’s just something so alluring about it. Like he’s unlocking the past and getting a glimpse into how people lived thousands of years ago. 

He does his best to avoid Rumlow—easy enough considering that Rumlow is spending most of his time over at the temple section. They really only run into each other at the nightly dinners, which makes it a lot more bearable. Bucky just keeps his distance, those nights, letting himself be distracted by the conversation and other people discussing their findings.

Henry is around a lot as well. Bucky still doesn’t know his real name, but he finds the more time they spend together, the more he likes him. There’s a certain ease to the way Henry carries himself, and he’s clearly smart as hell—something that Bucky’s _always_ interested in. He might not have an archeology degree, but he certainly knows his way around a site. Bucky just about falls in love with him when he stops one of the other guys from accidentally scratching one of the murals on the wall. “Be _careful_ ,” he says, tugging the spade from the guy’s hand. “That’s a painting of Nebamun. It’s extremely rare. Don’t damage it.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says, calming his racing heart.

“No worries,” Henry says, flashing him that smile, and Bucky’s stomach does a weird little swoop thing. “Preserving history, right?”

Bucky nods. “How do you know all this? Did you—you’re not a grad student, are you? I haven’t seen you at the dinners.”

Henry snorts. “No. I’m a regular guy. Just been around a few times, is all.”

“Most regular guys don’t know obscure scribe and grain accountants from Ancient Egypt,” Bucky points out, and Henry just shrugs.

“Been around a few times,” he says again. “You pick up stuff from that.”

“Mm.” Bucky resolves to find out more before hurrying off to supervise the clearing of an antechamber. A week in, they’re still not any closer to getting into the throne room, although he has high hopes for this one.

They stop at the usual time, and this time Bucky manages to catch Henry before he disappears. “Would you like to come to dinner?”

Henry shrugs. “Nah,” he says. “Too many smart people talkin’ about shit I don’t understand.”

“You’re smart,” Bucky says. “But I know what you mean. Do you...” He pauses, then says, “I thought maybe we could go for a drink or something.”

Henry studies him for a moment. He has very pretty eyes, Bucky decides. Blue and friendly, and just...perfect.

His mouth quirks in a little smirk. “Sounds like you’re asking me on a date, Dr. Barnes.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “Oh—no—I’m not—” He blushes, suddenly glad of the relatively darkness in the chamber. There are torches lit, but hopefully they don’t reveal much. “I’m not—”

“I am,” Henry says, shrugging, and the cavalier way he says it makes Bucky relax, because he _is_ , and trying to pretend otherwise grates at him sometimes. “But this can just be a work thing. Two guys on a—”

“It’s a date,” Bucky says, and Henry can’t quite hide the way his eyes light up.

There’s a skittering sound behind them, and they both turn around to see Rumlow walking closer. Henry swears quietly, vanishing into the antechamber before Bucky can ask what the problem is.

“Hello, Dr. Barnes,” Rumlow says.

“Rumlow.” Bucky’s suddenly aware of how dusty and gross he is—not that he’s ashamed of what he does, but Rumlow’s always very put together in a way Bucky isn’t, and it’s...condescending, really. Like he’s too good to go digging in the dirt with the rest of them. “Can I help you?”

“I was wondering if you found that artifact I was looking for,” Rumlow says. “I haven’t had any luck over at the temple.”

“No, sorry.” Bucky shrugs. “We’re keeping an eye out for it, though. But like I’ve told you—the head of a _Was-_ scepter is relatively small. We’re talking hand-sized. It’s unlikely we’d ever—” A clatter from inside the antechamber cuts him off, and there’s a quiet string of swearing. Bucky turns around, peering in. “Henry? You alright?”

“Fine,” Henry calls back.

Rumlow makes a short noise. Then he’s roughly shoving past Bucky, almost pushing him into the wall as he storms into the antechamber. “Well, well, well,” he says, a cruel edge in his voice, and he crosses his arms over his chest. “Clint Barton. I should’ve expected to see you here.”

“It’s taken you a long time to notice,” Henry—Clint?— says. “I’m almost disappointed, Rumlow. Two years together, and all it takes is some hair dye to turn me invisible? I expected better from you.” His left hand is tightly clenched, and he’s smiling, but there’s a tenseness to it. Like he’s ready to run somewhere.

Rumlow snorts. “You always did have a high opinion of yourself,” he says, smirking. “I knew you were here somewhere. What have you stolen so far?”

“Not a damn thing.” Henry’s eyes flick to Bucky. “Dr. Barnes—”

“Dr. Barnes,” Rumlow interrupts. “I’d like you to meet Clint Barton. Small-time petty thief and grave robber.”

“And this is Brock Rumlow,” Barton snaps. “Big-time condescending snob.” He glares at Rumlow, who looks more amused than anything. “Do you need something, or are you just here to be your usual charming self?”

“I heard a noise,” Rumlow says, all innocent. “I was investigating a potential security issue, and it turns out I was right.”

“I’m working on the site, you jerk. I’m allowed to be here.”

“Uh-huh.” Rumlow gestures to his hand. “And what do you have there?”

Barton’s fingers tighten even more, knuckles whitening. “Nothing.”

Rumlow sighs. “Open your hand, Barton.”

Barton shakes his head, eyes flicking to Bucky. “I’m sorry you have to see this,” he says. “I promise this wasn’t how things were supposed to go.”

Bucky steps a little closer. “Open your hand, please.”

“Dr. Barnes—”

“Henry—” Bucky closes his eyes for a second, something like betrayal curling in his chest. “No. Barton. Open your hand. If you’re stealing from the site—”

“It’s just a rock, okay?” Barton holds up the oblong object. It looks wooden, smooth and worn, with something he can’t quite see carved on it. “Thought it looked cool.”

Rumlow stiffens, eyes fixed on it. “Give it to me,” he says, a note of greed suddenly in his voice. “Give it to me. _Now_.”

“No,” Barton says, and he shoves it in his pocket.

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with, Barton. You’re—”

“I got a pretty good idea,” Barton says, edging around him towards the door. Towards Bucky. “If you want it, Rumlow, you’re gonna have to pry it from my cold, dead hands.”

“That can be arranged,” Rumlow says, and he pulls out a gun.

Barton immediately throws something with his other hand—a rock, it looks like—and nails Rumlow dead on, hitting him between the eyes. He stumbles backwards, and Barton spins on his heel, turning towards the door. “Come on!” he yells, grabbing Bucky’s arm and dragging him with.

They’re halfway up the ramp leading into the palace when there’s a gunshot from behind them, shattering into a particularly beautiful mosaic on a pillar. Bucky shouts in dismay, but Barton keeps towing him along. “No time!” he yells. “We gotta move!”

“Why am _I_ running?” Bucky yells, but he doesn’t get an answer. Barton just keeps towing him along, an immovable force, and Bucky’s helpless to fight against it.

They make it into the night and sprint over to one of the jeeps. Barton jumps in the driver's seat and starts it; Bucky barely makes it into the passenger side before he takes off. He drives like an absolute maniac, taking sharp turns on two wheels, weaving through the dig sites without lights on.

“You’re going to kill us!” Bucky yells, fingers clenched onto the door handle.

“Just trust me!” Barton yells back, and takes another sharp turn. “We just gotta get some distance, then we can—”

Can what, Bucky doesn’t get to find out. Another jeep suddenly pulls out in front of them, and Barton slams the brakes hard, yanking the wheel to the left at the same time. The car spins, wobbles, very nearly tips over, and all Bucky can do is hold on and pray—

They come to a stop, miraculously still upright, and Barton immediately hits the gas again. The jeep lurches forward, sand spraying up beneath the tires.

“Hold on,” Barton says grimly, and he guns it—

Another car hits them, a perfectly calculated move into the tail of the jeep that sends them spinning again. Bucky grabs hard for the dashboard, bracing himself against the floor with his feet, other hand firmly clenched on the door. They’re facing a roped off site now, and Barton swears quietly as he slams the jeep into reverse. “Damnit—”

They start to back up, but then there’s a car behind them, and another car to the side, and a sudden influx of people and headlights. Bucky winces against the brightness, hand moving to shade his eyes. There’s guns, too, a lot of them, all pointed at him and Barton, and a whole bunch of yelling in what sounds like German.

“Shit,” Barton mutters, hands clenched on the wheel, eyes darting around like he’s looking for an escape. “I— _shit_. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize there were more of them.”

“What is happening?” Bucky asks, heart still racing. “Who are you? Who are these people?”

“Don’t shoot them!” a familiar voice calls, and Rumlow strides up to the jeep, a cold smile on his face. “That was a valiant effort for just a rock, Barton.”

“It’s a very pretty rock,” Barton says, hands still fixed to the wheel. He glares at Rumlow, then looks over at Bucky. “Let Dr. Barnes walk out of here, and you can have it.”

“Oh, Barton,” Rumlow says, faux-sympathetic. “I’m not the one who dragged him into this mess, am I?”

“You were the one waving a gun around!”

“I wouldn’t have shot _him_.”

Barton scoffs. “Forgive me for not trusting your good intentions, but you don’t exactly—”

“Enough of this,” says a third voice, the tone of it both icy and exasperated. Bucky’s eyes flick over to see a tall, blond man with glasses stepping through the circle of guns trained on them. “Barton.”

“Alexander Pierce,” Barton says, and Bucky wonders if anyone else can hear the slight tremble in his voice. “I’m honored. What brings you down from your high and mighty castle?”

Pierce smiles. It’s a politician's smile, too wide and too friendly, eerie in the glow of the headlights. “I was invited,” he says. “I’m funding this dig, after all. I thought it was high time I come and see how things were coming along.” He puts a hand on the jeep door. “Now. Rumlow tells me you have what we’ve been looking for. Is that the case?”

Barton’s fingers clench on the wheel again, like he’s going to punch Pierce in the face. “Let Dr. Barnes go.”

“Oh, Barton,” Pierce says. “You’re not in a position to negotiate for anything right now.”

“Yeah, but I try anyway.” He flashes a strained smile. “That’s half my charm and all, right?”

“Mm. Get out of the vehicle, please. I’d like to keep things pleasant between us.” He glances at Bucky. “You as well, Dr. Barnes.”

For a moment, Barton looks like he’s contemplating driving the jeep straight into the dig site in front of them. He even goes so far as to put his hand on the gearshift. “I really—”

“For heaven’s sake,” Rumlow snaps, and he pulls out his gun again, this time aiming it at Bucky. “Get out, Barton.”

Barton clenches his jaw. “Fine,” he says, raising his hands. “Fine. We’re getting out.” He glances over at Bucky, an apology in his eyes, and gestures to the door.

As soon as they’re out, Rumlow lowers the gun. “I really don’t understand why you insist on making everything difficult.”

Barton shrugs. “Other half of my charm?”

“I’m sure,” Pierce says dryly. “Now. I believe you have something that belongs to us?”

“If I give it to you,” Barton says, “you’re just going to shoot us anyway.”

“I wasn’t planning on it, actually. I have some further use for you. But if you don’t give it to me, I will be forced to allow Mr. Rumlow to shoot your friend here.”

“Don’t—” Barton scrabbles in his pocket, then shoves the wooden piece at Pierce. “Leave him alone, alright?”

Bucky’s fingers twitch towards his gun. It’d be stupid to draw it now, especially considering that he has no idea what’s going on. But he doesn’t like the position they’re in, and there’s a nagging feeling in the back of his mind that’s served him well in the past. A little sense that says _something is about to go very wrong here._

Pierce holds the wood up in the headlight. “Finally,” he murmurs, a manic look stealing into his eyes. “After all these months.”

The rest of the group seems to edge towards him, eyes on the wood. It’s the top of the _Was-_ scepter, Bucky realizes, the thing that Rumlow was searching so hard for. He still doesn’t know _why_ any of them want it, but maybe now that they have it, they’ll leave him and Barton alone.

_They’ll probably stop funding the dig_ , he thinks suddenly, and nearly laughs at the absurdity of it. He’s being held at gunpoint by half a dozen people, and he’s worrying about archeology funding.

Barton tugs on his arm. “Move,” he whispers, nodding his head to the side. “This way.”

They almost make it. They’re a few steps from being out of the circle of headlights when one of the guards blinks, seemingly surfacing from some kind of spell. “Stop right there,” he says, pointing a gun at them. The sound of his voice brings the rest of them out of it, and Pierce snaps a few short orders in German. Several more guards come over—one of them finally having the presence of mind to take Bucky’s gun and whip—and they’re pushed into their knees back in the center of the circle.

“Not just yet, Mr. Barton,” Pierce says. “I’d like the pleasure of your company a little while longer, if you don’t mind.”

“I do mind,” Barton says. “I mind a lot. I had a plan to go get some drinks, and—”

“Shut up,” Rumlow growls, and he slams the butt of his gun into Barton’s head. Barton pitches sideways, and Bucky only barely manages to catch him.

“That wasn’t necessary,” he says, setting Barton upright.

“It wasn’t,” Pierce adds, and narrows his eyes at Rumlow. “I understand you have history, but I’ll remind you that I need him alive and relatively unharmed.”

Barton presses a hand to the side of his head, hissing in pain as it comes away bloody. “Hate that guy,” he mutters, and then Pierce’s words suddenly seem to register with him. “Uh, wait—what do you need me for?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Rumlow says, pulling him up to his feet. “We’ll take good care of you.” He shoves Barton at one of the guards. “Tie his hands, get him back to base.”

“Wait—” Barton slips free with some kind of twist, holding his hands up. “Dr. Barnes—”

“Will be coming as well,” Pierce suddenly says. “I think we could use a man of his expertise, wouldn’t you agree?”

Rumlow looks less than happy about this, but he gestures at one of the guards, who grabs Bucky and pulls him to his feet as well. They tie his hands too, and shove him into the back of a jeep alongside Barton, who seems both furious and worried. He casts an inscrutable look at Bucky, then turns to Pierce. “Look, it’s really—”

“Relax, Barton,” Pierce says. “We’re not going to hurt either of you.” The _yet_ is implied, and they both know it. “But I’d like to continue this conversation at a more reasonable time, and in a more reasonable place.”

“Dr. Wilson’s expecting me,” Bucky says. It’s a feeble excuse, but he doesn’t know what else to say to dissuade Pierce. “At the dinner.”

“I’ll tell him you’re with me.” Pierce offers him a tight smile. “After all, he insisted on having you brought on. A private meeting with me won’t raise too many eyebrows. I like to know what I’m paying for.”

“I’m—”

“To the base,” Pierce says to the guard driving, and Bucky’s words are lost to the grumble of the engine as the jeep lurches forward.

They’re taken to the entrance of the site, where they swap the open-air jeeps for something that looks more like a military truck. The guards shove him and Barton into the back of it, then close the hatch and go around to the front. Bucky manages to maneuver himself up onto the bench, sitting heavily as his hands flex in the ropes. He could get out of these, probably, but—

“Ugh,” Barton says as the truck lurches forward. He awkwardly rolls to his side, then tucks his knees up to his chest and slips his arms from behind his back, moving them to the front. “I’m so sorry, Dr. Barnes, I really am—”

“Save it,” Bucky says. “Just—what’s going on here? Who are these people?”

Barton sighs. “They’re Nazis.”

“ _What?_ ”

That gets him a raised eyebrow. “Did you...not know that?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Dr. Wilson was tight-lipped about the funding. I probed, but I wasn’t able to get anything concrete.”

“Ah. Well, yes. They’re Nazis. Something called the Thule Society? They’re like...the overseers, and then Pierce’s division is called Hydra. I’m not really clear on the details.” He rubs his forehead. “They hunt occult objects for Hitler. This scepter thing is the latest in a long line of them. They’ve also been looking for the Spear of Destiny, and the Ark of the Covenant, and a couple other things.”

“How do you know them?”

“Rumlow and I used to...work together.” He holds Bucky’s gaze, and the words suddenly have a weighted meaning to them. “We were partners for a few years. Then he got a better offer. Lots and lots of money for the small price of betraying me. Which he did. Without a second thought.” Something like pain crosses his face, and he closes his eyes. “It wasn’t a good year for me, for multiple reasons. But now he contracts himself to find things. Fancies himself an archeologist, except without all the degrees. Really, he does what I do, he’s just...got more funding.”

“And what is it that you do?” Bucky asks, thinking of what Rumlow had said.

Barton shrugs. “I procure things.”

“You steal them.”

Another shrug. “Only from dead people.”

“You grave rob,” Bucky says sternly.

“So do you. You just get to call it a fancy name.”

“Archeology is not _grave robbing—_ ”

“Sure it is—”

“It’s the search for facts—”

“You just put it in museums to make yourself feel better. And then no one pays you for it.”

Bucky glares at him. “I’m not grave robbing,” he snaps. “I’m studying history. There’s a difference. We learn about the past so we can apply it to a better future. We’re improving our understanding of the world around us. _You’re_ just finding valuables and selling them to the highest bidder.”

Barton is quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry,” he says, and Bucky blinks in surprise. “It’s not important, anyway. Not right now.” He motions with his hands. “Come here and I can untie you.”

Bucky turns around, letting Barton free his hands before returning the favor. “So now what?”

“They want us for something,” Barton says. “I don’t know what. It’s probably not good. They’ve been looking for this scepter thing for a long time.”

“How did you find it?”

“By accident. I went in the chamber to avoid Rumlow seeing me, and I accidentally kicked it. When I picked it up, I realized that’s what he was looking for.” He rubs his chin, looking like he’s about to say something else. Then he shakes his head. “Anyway. We need to get it from them before we escape.”

“It’s just an artifact,” Bucky says. “Are you worried they’re going to sell it before you do? Steal your fortune?”

Barton looks almost...hurt, at that, and Bucky feels oddly guilty. “No,” he says. “I don’t want them to have it because they’re Nazis, and they’ve been desperately looking for it for about seven months. I try to keep tabs on Rumlow when I can, and I’ve generally found that if he wants something, it’s not for good reasons. They think they can do something big with it, and so we need to take it from them.”

There’s an excited look in his eye now, and despite being irritated, Bucky can’t help but be amused at the way he switches moods. It’s disarming, but also kind of charming in its own way.

“It’s also only half the scepter,” Bucky says, and Barton tilts his head in confusion. “They’re still missing the staff part. If putting the whole thing together is their goal.”

Barton nods and looks out the back of the truck. “Need more information,” he sighs, tucking his knees to his chest and wrapping his arms around them. “If you want to bail out here, I wouldn’t blame you.”

“I’d rather not jump out of a moving truck,” Bucky says. “Broke my arm doing that last time.”

That gets his attention. “Jump out of moving vehicles a lot, do you?”

“When the situation calls for it,” Bucky says evasively. “Besides, I wouldn’t make it far.” He nods towards the headlights following them. “And I don’t want to leave you alone.”

Barton goes still at that, eyes fixed on Bucky. “That so?”

“I’m not happy with you,” Bucky says. “You’re ruining my archeology dig. But I’m not leaving you to fend for yourself with a bunch of Nazis either. I’m not _that_ cold-hearted.”

A hint of relief crosses Barton’s face, and he smiles. “Well. If you really want to stick around, I’ll be glad to have you.” The smile gets a little bigger. “You still owe me a drink.”

“We’re being kidnapped by Nazis,” Bucky says, gesturing around. “I’d say _you_ owe me a drink. This is your fault.”

Barton laughs. “Fine. We get out of this in one piece, I’ll happily buy you a drink. Sound like a plan?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, and finds himself grinning back. He’s not exactly thrilled about the situation, and he’s worried about what’s coming, but there’s something infectious about Barton’s smile, and the way he carries himself, and Bucky can’t help but be at least a little interested in him. He’s always liked mysteries—that’s why he got into archeology—and Barton’s the most fascinating one he’s come across yet.

The truck rumbles to a stop, and Bucky looks at the ropes curled on the floor. “I suppose they’ll be unhappy about that.”

“Nah,” Barton says, stretching his arms overhead. “I can slip anything. They won’t even be surprised. It’s like a little inside joke between us now.”

“How often do you get picked up by Nazis?”

“Too often, sadly,” Barton says, and stands up. The back of the truck opens to a bunch of guns again, and Bucky rolls his eyes, then hops off the truck after Barton.

They’re in the driveway of an impressively-sized mansion, lit up with an inviting warm glow. Or rather, it would be inviting if not for enormous Nazi flag hanging from the balcony. Bucky stares up at the blood-red color and feels nausea coil in him.

“It’s alright,” Barton murmurs, brushing against him. “We’ll get out of this. Somehow.”

“I’m—” Bucky starts, but he’s interrupted as Rumlow comes around the side of the truck. True to Barton’s prediction, he just sighs when he sees their hands free.

“Don’t know what I expected,” he mutters, and grabs Barton’s arm. “Come on, then.”

“I can walk,” Barton says, pulling his arm free. “Don’t have to drag me everywhere—”

“Just do as you’re told, would you?” Rumlow grabs him again, towing him towards the doors.

“Do as I’m told,” Barton scoffs, stumbling after him. “It’s like you don’t even know me. When do I ever do what I’m told?”

Rumlow casts a nasty smile his way. “I don’t know,” he says, lowering his voice so only the three of them can hear. “I seem to recall you like being told what to do, sometimes.”

His tone is friendly, but his eyes are cold, and Barton’s face flushes red as he glances at Bucky. “Those days are over,” he mutters, dropping his eyes to the floor.

Rumlow looks triumphant, and he smirks as he pulls Barton into the foyer. The inside of the mansion is just as impressive as the outside, an obscene display of wealth visible everywhere he looks. They’re taken to a large sitting room and directed to a surprisingly uncomfortable sofa. Rumlow pats Barton on the head, then goes over to a table on the opposite side of the room and pours himself a glass of whiskey.

“You okay?” Bucky asks Barton, who’s still staring at the floor, a cold expression on his normally sunny face.

“Yeah,” Barton says, rubbing his forehead. “I just...I hate him.” He tries for a smile, even though it’s a shadow of what it usually is. “We have history.”

“So you said.” Bucky doesn’t need more. He can guess.

Pierce enters the room a few minutes later, and dismisses all but two of the guards. “I’m sure we can all be pleasant with each other,” he says, taking the drink Rumlow hands him and raising an eyebrow at Barton.

“I’ll consider it,” Barton says. “If you tell me why we’re here.”

“Oh, I will. But it’s late, and I’m sure you’re both tired. There are rooms available for you both. I suggest that we all get a good night’s sleep, then discuss this over breakfast. What do you say?”

Barton snorts. “You say that like we have a choice to refuse. If I tell you no, are you going to let me walk out of here?”

Pierce just smiles. “And just where is it you think you’re going to go?”

“Any place that doesn’t have Nazis is a pretty decent start.”

“Mm.” He gestures towards the stairs. “Rooms are upstairs and to the left. Make yourself comfortable. We’ll talk in the morning.”

Barton looks over at Bucky, who shrugs. “Guess we don’t have much of a choice.”

“Not so much,” Barton sighs, and gets up.

The rooms are nice, at least—not that he expected anything different from the rest of the mansion. He examines it—then goes through the joined bathroom to Barton’s room. “Stayed in worse places, I suppose.”

“Me too,” Barton says from where he’s flopped on the bed. “I mean—the Nazis downstairs aren’t great, but at least the accommodations are decent.” He rolls over to look at Bucky. “So...I guess we sleep now?”

Bucky thinks sadly of the dinner he’s missing, and nods. “Guess so.”

“We’ll figure it out in the morning,” Barton says. “We’ll sit through Pierce’s boring monologue, figure out what he wants us for, and then tell him to stuff it and make a dramatic escape. Sound good?”

Bucky laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “That sounds like a plan to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta’ed by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	4. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “There are many wonders in this world, Dr. Barnes,” Pierce says. “I assure you, the gods are quite real. And no, I don’t intend to summon him at all. Unfortunately, only one person in this room can do that.”
> 
> He looks across the table. Barton’s expression is still amused, although it’s slowly fading into disbelief. “Me,” he says, and Pierce nods. “Uh. Sorry, what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting early because Christmas. <3 best wishes to you all in whatever you do/don't celebrate!

He gets a bit of a shock the next morning when he meets Barton in the hallway. “You’re blond,” he says, staring at the mess of straw-colored hair.

“Yeah,” Barton says. “Temporary hair dye. Was trying to blend in. Kind of a moot point now, so...” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “Back to blond. I missed it. Don’t feel like me with dark hair.”

“It’s a good look.” Bucky liked the dark hair, but it did look kind of odd on him. The blond is much better. It seems to fit him, somehow, the lighter color mixing perfectly with the mischievous smirk and the sparkle of amusement in his eyes.

Bucky likes it. Likes it way more than he probably should.

Breakfast is a lavish affair—far better than the piece of toast Bucky’s been cramming into his mouth every morning. His jaw nearly hits the floor when they walk into the dining room and see the enormous spread of food.

“Good morning,” Pierce says, spreading jam on a piece of toast. “Have a seat, please.” He indicates the chairs opposite. Rumlow is already next to him, eyeing Barton with an unreadable gaze as he sips his coffee.

Barton ignores Rumlow, looking warily at the food. “None of this is poisoned, right?”

“What would be the point in that, Barton?”

“I don’t know how Nazis think,” Barton says, but he sits down and starts pulling food onto his plate. Bucky sits next to him, doing the same thing. He’s wary too, but he’s also hungry as hell and needs to eat. _Fuel up where you can_ , that was one of the first things he learned during his stint in the Army. And Nazis or not, he’s never been one to turn down free food.

“So,” he says, pouring himself some coffee. “What is it you think you need us for?”

“Straight to business, I see,” Pierce says. “I like that in a man.” He takes a bite of his toast. “You know the artifact that Mr. Rumlow was searching for?”

“Head of a _Was-_ scepter,” Bucky says. “I know.”

“Not just any old one,” Pierce corrects. “This is the head to the Scepter of Set.”

Bucky stares at him. “That’s a myth,” he finally says. “That’s—”

“Very real.” Pierce reaches into his pocket and sets the scepter head on the table. “The prince of Thinis used this very scepter to summon Set and ask him for help to defend from the barbarians at the gates. Something went wrong, he broke the scepter in two, and then the palace collapsed.” He pats the scepter head. “It’s taken us months to track down Thinis and find this. We have a lead on the other half—the staff—and we’re close to finding that as well.”

“Then what?” Bucky asks. “It’s just a piece of history, is all. It’s not—there’s nothing special to it, other than it’s an interesting artifact.” He looks back and forth between Pierce and Rumlow, fighting the urge to laugh. “You can’t possibly think—”

Rumlow suddenly stands. He reaches over Pierce and grabs the scepter head, then shoves it into Bucky’s free hand. “Hold it,” he says roughly, closing Bucky’s fingers around it.

As soon as his skin makes contact with the wood, there’s a ringing in his ears, and the feeling of _something_ in the back of his mind. Something ancient and cruel, like a whisper reaching out across a vast distance. He shivers, goosebumps erupting down his arms, and forces himself to set the scepter head down. The moment he lets go, the sensation fades from his mind, leaving him cold.

“There’s power there,” Pierce says, watching him closely. “You felt it.”

Bucky wants to deny it, but he’s still shivering, still has the feeling like someone’s watching over his shoulder. And he’s seen enough things in this world to know it’s not entirely unrealistic, even if it does seem overly fantastical.

“Why did he break it?” he asks. “The prince.”

“According to the recordings we found, Set was banished to the Underworld by the other gods. The only way he could come walk the earth is if he was summoned by the staff as part of a ritual. Atemu broke it to send him back without completing the ritual. When he was transported outside the city before it collapsed, he only had the staff with him. The head, as you know, was buried in Thinis under the rubble.”

“Who transported him?”

Pierce shrugs. “The account is not particularly clear. Atemu believes it was Horus. That’s all we know.”

Bucky rubs his chin. “So say I believe you,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Say I believe all of it. What’s the plan? You get the head and the staff, and then...”

“That’s where he comes in,” Rumlow nods at Barton, who looks up with a piece of bacon dangling from his mouth.

“The hell you want me to do?”

“You’re going to use it to summon him,” Pierce says, like the answer is obvious. “The god himself. Set.”

Barton stares at him for a moment, then starts laughing. “Alright,” he says, setting the bacon down. “You’re clearly insane.”

“You will summon him for us.” Pierce leans across the table. “And he will help us usher in the Third Reich.”

There’s silence at the table after that statement. Bucky stares at Pierce, trying to piece together what he’s saying.

“You want him...” he starts after a moment, then shakes his head. “Hang on. I’m sorry. You think that you can summon an Egyptian god of chaos to help further Hitler’s grand plans?” He laughs, the sound a little wild in the silence of the room. “Mr. Pierce—you are aware the gods aren’t... _real_ , right? They’re just myths. Legends.”

“There are many wonders in this world, Dr. Barnes,” Pierce says. “I assure you, the gods are quite real. And no, I don’t intend to summon him at all. Unfortunately, only one person in this room can do that.”

He looks across the table. Barton’s expression is still amused, although it’s slowly fading into disbelief. “Me,” he says, and Pierce nods. “Uh. Sorry, _what?_ ”

“You’re descended from royal blood,” Pierce says. “And only someone of royal blood can wield the scepter. One of your ancestors is Atemu, the prince who attempted to summon Set in Thinis all those years ago. It’s because of his account of events that we were able to find the head of the scepter. We know that he summoned the god, but something went wrong, and he ended up fleeing the city with the broken staff as the only survivor.” He sips his coffee.

“You’re insane,” Barton says. “Both of you. Even if I believe you, and we say all of this is real—how did you think this was going to go? What was the plan, you just hand me the magic stick and I call down some weird chaos god? Just say ‘Hi, Mr. Set, mind helping my Nazi friends here conquer the world?’” He laughs. “Pierce. Come on. You know that’s not going to happen.”

“It is going to happen,” Pierce says calmly, and there’s a certainty to his tone that sends a chill down Bucky’s spine.

“No, it’s not.” Barton’s hand is clenched around one of the knives. “I’m not helping you in any way. I don’t care what you do to me.”

“No, I imagine you don’t,” Pierce muses. He looks...deliberately careless, and the casual way he’s sitting is setting off alarm bells in Bucky’s head. There’s something they’re missing here. “But then that’s why _he’s_ here, isn’t it?” He turns slightly in his chair. “Gentlemen, if you would?”

Instantly, guards appear from various places in the room, guns up and ready to go. There’s five of them, and every single one is pointing a gun at Bucky’s head.

Barton’s jaw tightens. “You’re not going to kill him,” he says. “Don’t play that game with me, Pierce. You’re bluffing.”

“Am I?” Pierce asks, raising an eyebrow. “Why is he here, if not to act as leverage?”

“I barely even know the guy,” Barton says. “You think I care what happens to him?”

Rumlow sets his cup down. “Of course you do,” he says. “Or else you wouldn’t have tried so hard to get us to let him go, would you?” He flashes a feral looking grin. “Even if you had just met him, you’d care. That’s your weakness, Barton. You like people too much. Always trying to save everybody.”

Barton holds his gaze for a long moment. “Better than not caring about anybody,” he says flatly. “I’d rather care too much than be like you.”

Rumlow smirks, but before he can say anything, Pierce holds up a hand. “Do we have an understanding?”

“He’s an archeologist,” Barton says, sounding a little desperate. “Really good, too. You said you’re looking for the other part of the thing? He can help you find it. You don’t have to kill him.”

“I—” Bucky starts, but Barton’s other hand is gripping his knee under the table, and he stops.

“I worked with him for a week,” Barton continues. “Guy knows his shit. He can find anything.”

“Your reputation does precede you, Dr. Barnes,” Pierce says, meeting his eyes. “I did some investigating when Dr. Wilson insisted that he bring you on as part of the team. I was certainly impressed by all the work you’ve done. A man of your expertise would be valuable.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Sure,” he says. “Help you find the other half of a scepter to summon a chaos god I don’t necessarily believe in. That sounds exactly like what I want to do with my time.”

Barton snorts, flashing him a grin. Pierce sighs. “You would be well compensated, Dr. Barnes.”

“I don’t want your compensation,” Bucky says. “I’m not interested.”

“The sooner you help us, the sooner this can be over. As soon as we’ve gotten what we wanted, we will release the both of you. You have my word.”

His _word_ doesn’t mean a damn thing to Bucky, and he can tell it doesn’t mean anything to Barton, either. He trusts Pierce about as far as he can throw him.

_But if you help,_ he suddenly thinks, _you can stall. Misdirect. Buy yourselves some time until you can get out of here._

“Fine,” he says, and Barton throws him a startled look, like he’s surprised Bucky’s acquiescing so quickly. “Fine. I’ll do it. But Barton stays with me.”

“We’re not going to harm him,” Pierce says, aiming for soothing and falling short. “We need him. It wouldn’t do us any good to kill him.”

“He’s smart,” Bucky says stubbornly. “I’ve seen it. I want his help. You wanna find this thing, we might as well have as many eyes looking as we can, right?”

Pierce looks like he’s going to protest, but Rumlow suddenly grins. “Sure,” he says, sounding smug. “I don’t see the harm in that, Pierce. He’s right—the more people we have looking, the better.”

Pierce sighs. “I suppose,” he says. “If our resident tomb raider is agreeable.” He turns to Barton. “Well?”

“Sure,” Barton drawls, leaning back in his chair. He appears relaxed, but Bucky can see the way his hand is clenched under the table, tight on his knee. “Whatever helps the Nazis. I’m all for that.”

There’s a strain in his voice, and Rumlow looks even more pleased with himself, but Bucky doesn’t have time to put it all together right now. He reaches forward and pours himself some coffee, then says, “Should we get started, then?”

Rumlow gets up. “Follow me,” he says, and leads them out of the room. Barton looks sadly at the remainder of his breakfast, then gets up and trails after him, snagging a croissant along the way. There’s a little flash of silver at his wrist, and Bucky’s pretty sure that he took a knife too, but he doesn’t comment on it.

Rumlow leads them to a large study. There’s a massive map on the wall, marked with various colored pins. Papers are spread all over the table, haphazard stacks and piles everywhere, mixed in with books and other things. Several large armchairs are against the wall, pushed out of the way to make room for more items.

“Real organized,” Barton comments, leaning against the doorway.

“This is what we have so far,” Rumlow says, ignoring him and offering a stack of papers to Bucky. “Atemu was the prince of Thinis. There was a war—we’re not sure between who, still putting that together—and the city was in trouble. Atemu used the scepter to summon Set, and made some kind of deal with him to kill the attackers. But then something happened, and the city ended up collapsing in some kind of explosion.”

Bucky nods, flipping through the papers. “How do you know all of this?”

“Multiple sources.” He starts pointing. “This collection here is the family lineage we’ve been tracing. Atemu gave an account of what happened to him on his deathbed, and apparently bequeathed the staff to his son, who in turn gave it to his son. From there it was either stolen or lost—it goes missing, and doesn’t show up again until nearly fifty years later in a temple. After that, we’ve traced the staff through several different owners, and multiple generations. It goes missing again somewhere around 1852, and that’s where we lose the trail completely.”

Bucky skims the family lineage, following the trail of names. “You’re sure this is accurate?”

“Fairly sure,” Rumlow says. “Most people can’t trace their family lineage back that far, but Atemu and all his descendants seem to have something in common.”

“Which is?”

“Bad luck.” Rumlow smirks. “According to Atemu’s deathbed confession, Set cursed him and his descendants with chaos. It’s like a flare going off at certain points in history.” He picks up a few other papers. “Drought. Fires. Other disasters. And they always seem to center around Atemu’s descendants.”

“Hang on,” Barton says, moving forward. “Wait. Are you saying that a million years ago, some god cursed a guy with chaos, and _that’s_ why shit never goes right for me?”

The smirk gets wider. “Fascinating, isn’t it?”

“Seems unfair.” Barton scrubs a hand through his hair. “I mean— _I_ didn’t summon a chaos god, dunno why I have to pay the consequences for it.”

“Families can be rough,” Rumlow says, and it sounds sympathetic, but there’s a nasty undercurrent to his voice that makes Bucky shiver. “In any case, Dr. Barnes, this is what we have. We’re following a potential lead in Memphis right now, but your expertise is welcome. We’re not sure how that’ll turn out.” He hands some papers to Barton. “Some light reading for you.”

Barton steps back. “Not interested.”

“Just take them,” Rumlow taunts, pushing them at his chest. “I mean—you want to help, don’t you?”

“Not really,” Barton says. “If we’re being honest.”

“Should I take you back to Pierce? Tell him you decided not to cooperate?”

Barton looks increasingly uncomfortable, shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Fine,” he snaps after a moment, and takes the papers. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

“Yes.” But he doesn’t move, just crosses his arms over his chest and grins.

Bucky watches the interaction, feeling like there’s something he’s missing. Some puzzle piece that would make the picture clear. “What’s going on here?”

“He’s being his usual charming self,” Barton says. “That’s all.” He turns and looks at the map on the wall.

Rumlow laughs. “I’ll leave you to it,” he says, casting an amused look at Barton. “I’ll come check on you later. Hans will keep an eye on you.” He nods to the guard in the corner. “Don’t do anything stupid, Barton.”

“Ah, Rumlow. It’s like you don’t know me at all.” Barton starts idly poking through the papers on the table. “I make no promises.”

“Enjoy your reading,” Rumlow says, flashing a cold smile.

He leaves then, still laughing, and Bucky turns to Barton. “What the hell was that all about?”

“Like I said,” Barton mutters, touching one of the pins. “His usual charming self.” He glances at the guard, then lowers his voice. “Okay. What’s the plan here?”

“Well,” Bucky says, flipping through the papers in his hand. “I figure we look at the information they have, see what they know, and then use it against them.”

“You believe all this?”

“Not particularly. But they do, and I’ve done enough in my life to know not to dismiss claims just because I don’t believe in them.” He points at a stack of books. “Hand me _A History of Thinis_ , would you?”

Barton moves over to the stack. “Which one?”

“ _A History of Thinis_.”

“Yeah.” He picks up a couple, then sets the papers down and just brings him the whole stack. “Here. You’ll probably want them all at some point.”

“Mm,” Bucky says in agreement, already distracted. “I—yeah. Just set them down.”

He does. “What else?”

Bucky skims the papers on the table. “Uh...I don’t know. This isn’t organized very well.” He rifles through a few, sorting them into various piles. “Probably have to start with that.”

“I won’t be much help,” Barton says, looking over his shoulder. “I can’t read German.”

“Most of it’s in English, actually.” Bucky hands him a few. “But that’s fine, I’ll read. You just put things where I need them.” 

Between the two of them, they manage to organize the research into something that doesn’t make Bucky want to scream with frustration. Then it’s just a matter of reading what’s already there, and trying to make sense of it.

“Don’t suppose you can read hieroglyphics,” Bucky says to Barton, who’s sitting upside down one of the armchairs, legs propped against the back of it as he skims through a book.

“Nope,” Barton says cheerfully.

“You realize your book is upside down, right?”

“It’s called a challenge, smart boy.” Barton flips the book shut and looks at him. “Find anything?”

“Maybe.” Bucky holds up the notebook he’s been writing in. He glances towards the guard in the corner, then lowers his voice “I think their lead in Memphis is wrong.”

Barton instantly looks interested. “Yeah?”

“Wrong translation,” Bucky says, grabbing a few other papers. “It’s similar, I can see why they missed it. But here—” he points at a couple spots “—they didn’t quite get it right. So that led to _this—_ ” he grabs another paper, knocking over the pile at his right. “Here. This is wrong, and it all kind of trickles down from there. I could take you through it all if you want—”

“Please don’t.”

“—But the point is—” He sets all the papers down. “I’m pretty sure—call it ninety-nine percent—that they’re looking in the wrong place.”

Barton grins. “No shit?”

“No shit,” Bucky says, and gets up. He moves over to the map, examining it, checking it against his papers. “So actually, it should be...here.” He points at another city on the map, just below where they are. “Abydos.”

“Isn’t there a shrine to Osiris there?” Barton asks, and Bucky turns to him in surprise. “Or a temple or something that they’re uncovering. I was there last year. Lots of stuff on the walls about him.” He gestures to the table. “Would make sense, if the family was cursed by Set, to eventually try and go to somewhere more focused on Osiris. Weren’t they enemies?”

“Depends on the myth, but yes, generally. He killed and mutilated his brother Osiris.”

Barton nods solemnly. “Families are rough,” he says, echoing Rumlow.

“I suppose,” Bucky murmurs, looking at the map. “I don’t really have one, anymore. My father and I don’t speak very much, and my mother’s long dead. No siblings.”

“My parents died in a car accident,” Barton says, leaning against the wall. “I grew up in a circus.”

“You—really?”

“Really.” That easy smile stretches across his face, and Bucky suddenly realizes how much he likes seeing it there. “Had a one man show and everything. World’s Greatest Marksman.” He pretends like he’s drawing back on a bow. “I can shoot anything.”

“That sounds...” Bucky has no words. “Interesting.”

“It was a thing,” Barton agrees. “Might’ve stayed there, if my brother hadn’t started hanging out with some other people. He’s the one who got me into...” He waves a hand around. “This.”

“Where is he now?”

Barton shrugs. “Hopefully somewhere where he’s happy. We had kind of a...falling out, let’s say, and we don’t really talk anymore.”

“Falling out?”

“He and a friend tried to kill me and left me for dead.” He pulls up his shirt, showing off a series of scars on his chest. “Got this out of the deal, and learned a lot about trusting people. So...that’s nice, I guess.”

Bucky swallows. His mouth is dry, thoughts suddenly in overdrive as Barton just pulls up his shirt without a second thought, showing off an expanse of tanned, muscled skin along with the series of scars. “Oh,” he manages. “That doesn’t sound...fun.”

“It wasn’t,” Barton says, and drops his shirt. “But we made up, anyway. Kind of. We agreed to not stab each other anymore. Not anything groundbreaking, but you know. It’s friendly. Last I heard he was in...Moscow? Or Pennsylvania.”

“Those are two very different places.”

“Yeah, well. Like I said. We don’t really talk.” He nods at the map. “Anyway. So the prince guy went to this...Abbos? Ababados?”

“Abydos,” Bucky says, grinning. “And not the prince, the last person to have the scepter. That’s where the trail goes cold, not in Memphis. But you’re right, they’ve started uncovering another temple in Abydos. I’ve been there. That might be worth a try.” He squints at a paper, then sighs. “I need my glasses. I’m getting a headache.”

“We should take a break,” Barton says. “We’ve—well, just you, really—been at this for a while.” He gestures to the window, and Bucky suddenly realizes it’s getting dark outside.

“Did we work through lunch?”

“You did, yeah.”

“Aren’t you hungry?”

He shrugs. “I forgot.”

“To eat?”

Another shrug. “I was distracted.”

“By what?”

“You.” He waves a hand at the books. “You’re really into this stuff, aren’t you?”

“I’m a professor,” Bucky says. “Kind of goes with the territory.”

“Yeah, but you _really_ like it.” He looks happy about this, and Bucky’s not sure why.

“I do.” Bucky looks down at his notes. “I find translations to be fascinating. Particularly when there’s something to chase at the end of it.”

Barton offers a sly smile. “Thought you were against treasure hunting?”

“I’m an archeologist,” Bucky says airily. “I unearth history. I don’t treasure hunt.”

“Uh-huh.” Barton raises an eyebrow, and when Bucky doesn’t bother to challenge him, smiles wider. “Anyway. Find anything else interesting?”

“That’s it, really.” Bucky sits back, rubbing a hand through his hair and casting a glance at the guard, who hasn’t moved from the corner. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“You’ve been working hard,” says another voice, and Bucky looks up to see Pierce and Rumlow walking in. “Dr. Wilson mentioned you were a very dedicated man. I see he wasn’t far off the mark.” He looks at Barton. “And what have you been doing?”

Rumlow opens his mouth, but Bucky interjects before he can say something. “He’s been very helpful. I like having him around.”

Pierce looks skeptical, but doesn’t comment further. “I see. Have you found anything?”

Barton shrugs. “You’re right. About Memphis.”

“Are we?” He sounds overly pleased about it.

“You are,” Bucky agrees. He points out the flow of information he’s been following, leaving out the mistranslations he’d noticed. “It’s a hard path to follow, but I think you’re on the right track.” He sets the papers down. “That solve your problems?”

“Not really,” Pierce says. “Your confirmation is appreciated, but we need the staff in hand before anything else can happen. You understand.”

Bucky nods. “So we should go, then.”

“Go?”

“To Memphis.” He points at the map. “I know the man who runs the digs there. I can contact him, get us on site. They might’ve already found it, actually.”

“Is that so?” Pierce looks skeptical.

“Look, it’s in my best interest to help you and get this over with, right?” Bucky tries to look innocent. Their best chance of getting to Abydos is on the road, where it’s easier to make an escape. “We help you, you let us go. Wasn’t that the deal?”

“It was.”

“So let’s go. Faster we get there, sooner we can talk to people and get this over with. I want get back to my dig. Dr. Wilson will be missing me.”

He’s probably laying it on too thick, but there’s a hint of greed in Pierce’s eye, echoed on Rumlow’s face, and Bucky thinks that maybe—just maybe—they might have gotten away with it after all.

“That sounds like an excellent plan,” Pierce says. “We can be on the road tomorrow. It’s a bit late now.” He nods at Bucky. “You’ve been working for quite a while. I imagine you’re hungry.”

“Yes,” Bucky agrees. “Something to eat would be appreciated.”

“There is food waiting in the dining room.” Pierce gestures to the door.

Bucky starts to move forward, Barton on his heels, when Rumlow suddenly steps in between the two of them. “I want to talk to you,” he says, putting a hand on Barton’s shoulder.

Barton twists away. “Well, I _don’t_ want to talk to you,” he says. “Does that cancel it out?”

“No.” Rumlow grabs his arm, tight enough to bruise, and Bucky has a sudden urge to push him away. “I have some questions for you.”

“Tough shit,” Barton says. “I’m not answering a damn thing. You can take your questions and—”

Pierce holds up a hand. “Now, now,” he says. “We’re all being reasonable, yes?” There’s a pointed tone to his words, and he tilts his head in Bucky’s direction. They can all hear the hidden words behind his calm sentence. _Cooperate, or someone else is going to suffer the consequences._

“Fine,” Barton says, seething quietly. “Fine.” He looks at Bucky, something unreadable in his gaze, then plasters a crooked grin on his face. “Go on, then.”

“Don’t hurt him,” Bucky says to Rumlow.

Barton shrugs. “I’ll be fine. I’m chaos incarnate, remember? They have to keep me alive.”

_Alive and fine are two different things_ , Bucky thinks, but he doesn’t say it. He just nods and follows Pierce out of the room, trying to quash the sick feeling in his stomach. The door closes behind them with an ominous sound, and the last thing he sees is the nasty smile spreading itself over Rumlow’s face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta’ed by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	5. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And we’re going.” He points at the window. “This way.”
> 
> “Out the windows?”
> 
> “Welcome to chaos,” Barton says with a grin. He grabs the chair from behind the desk and hurls it. It slams into the window, shattering them with an impressive crash. “Let’s move, yeah?”

Barton doesn’t reappear during dinner, or during Pierce’s little question-and-answer session afterwards. Bucky only half-listens to him, answering distractedly and giving as few details as possible. Pierce might technically be his boss right now, but Bucky’s not here to be friends. He doesn’t even really want to be friends. He wants to be back at the dig, excavating history. He wants to take Barton out for drinks like he promised, get to know him a little better. He wants to be anywhere that’s not here, and he has a hard time hiding it.

“If you’re so set on having Barton alive,” he finally says, “I don’t understand why you’re letting this happen.”

“Letting what happen?”

Bucky gestures to the room. “Rumlow. And Barton. You know he’s hurting him.”

“I’m well aware of Mr. Rumlow’s...interests.” Pierce says the word like it’s distasteful, like it’s poison. “But he does provide a good service for us, and as such, I’m inclined to look the other way.”

“Interests,” Bucky repeats. “Meaning...”

“His taste in companions,” Pierce says. “His preference for...men.” His lip curls in a sneer. “Disgusting, honestly, but as I said—he does good work for us. I can allow him his indulgences.”

Bucky stares at his plate, a familiar wave of shame washing through him. He has his own _interests_ , as Pierce would say, something he’s been dealing with his entire life. He’s come to terms with it, by this point—and he emphatically does _not_ care what Pierce thinks of him—but it still burns at him to hear the tone, see the familiar disgust.

_Wonder which they’d hate more,_ he thinks, a sudden bubble of laughter curling up in him. _The fact that I’m homosexual, or the fact that I’m Jewish._ He shoves the thought away and forces himself to listen as Pierce goes on spewing his vitriol.

Pierce finally dismisses Bucky upstairs with a few curt words, fingers curled around the scotch glass that Bucky had refused. Bucky goes quickly, hoping to see Barton there. But there’s no sign of him, and when the clock ticks past midnight, Bucky finally gives up and goes to sleep.

He dreams about storms for some reason, rain and dust and wind swirling around in his mind. It’s not restful, and he wakes up after only a few hours, the sound of rain hitting glass still in his head.

Or rather, not in his head—there’s something at his window, something tapping—

Bucky throws off the covers and gets up, stumbling over to the window. “Barton?” He throws it open. “The hell are you doing out here?”

“Climbing,” Barton says, slipping in through his window, dripping water on the floor. He looks like hell—one eye blackened, the shadow of a bruise forming on his jaw, lip split and sluggishly bleeding. “How was dinner?”

“What _happened_ to you?” Bucky gets him a towel, watches as he makes the barest attempt to dry his hair.

“Hmm? Oh.” He gingerly touches his face. “Rumlow.”

“He beat you up?”

“A little, yeah. He does that.”

There’s a casual tone to his voice, and Bucky doesn’t like it one bit. “Why?”

“Because he’s a bully.” Barton shrugs. “It’s fine. I’m used to it. You ready to get out of here?”

Bucky stares at him. “What?”

“I know where the scepter head is.” Barton meets his eyes. The usual cheeriness is gone, and in its place is just a haunted, determined look. “I wanna get it. Let’s go.” He shoves something at Bucky—his bag, with the whip and his gun inside it.

Bucky immediately outfits himself, feeling better the second he’s got all his gear on. “Forget the scepter head,” he says. “Let’s just get out of here.”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I want it.” Barton drops his hand. “What if we do it the opposite way? What if we summon this chaos guy, and turn him on the Nazis?”

Bucky stares at him. “What?”

“I’m just saying. Let’s get the scepter head, find the staff part, and then just...” He mimes putting them together. “You know. Summon him, and point him at the Nazis.” He looks excited now. “Could be worth a try?”

“He—look, even if we decide all of this is real, and we believe it, summoning a chaos god and asking for help is just...it’s not a good idea.” Bucky shakes his head. “Set was the god of storms, deserts, disorder, and violence. That’s not exactly a good background for just offering help out of sheer benevolence.”

“Okay, but—“

“But nothing.” Bucky gestures around. “Our best bet at making it out of this alive is to play the game, figure out a way out of here, and get both pieces out of their hands entirely.”

“Are you talking about destroying them?”

“No!” It’s louder than he means it to be, but the idea of destroying history like that makes him sick inside. “Absolutely not. We can get them into a museum, they’ll be well protected there.”

Barton lets out a disbelieving laugh. “You really think that’s gonna stop them? Dr. Barnes, they funded an entire archeological dig to find one tiny little thing. All they have to do is waltz into whatever museum you give it to, hand over a bunch of money, and leave.” He shakes his head. “It’s nice how much you trust people, but I’m telling you that’s not going to happen.”

“Fine,” Bucky says. “We can talk about it later. But we really shouldn’t stick around—”

“I _know_ where it is,” Barton says. “I just need you to stand as lookout while I get it.” He nods towards the door. “Come with me. Stay quiet.”

“There’s a guard out there,” Bucky points out. “How—”

“Get him to come in here.”

“But—”

“Just do it.”

Bucky sighs, but he does as ordered, going to the door and opening it. “ _Excuse me,_ ” he says in German, and the guard turns. “ _I need your help with something_.”

The guard looks skeptical, but he follows Bucky into the room. “I don’t see—” he starts, and then Barton is jumping on him, doing some wild acrobatic-punch-kick move that Bucky can barely follow. The guard collapses to the floor, and Barton rolls proudly up to his feet.

“Ta-da,” he says, throwing his arms out to the side. “Circus days were good for something.”

Bucky’s not really sure what to say to that, honestly. He’s never seen anyone move quite like that, and it was impressive as hell, and honestly—really, really attractive.

“Yeah,” he agrees faintly, and Barton smirks, like he knows exactly what Bucky’s thinking. “Uh. Now what?”

“This way,” Barton says, and goes out the door. Bucky follows him down the stairs and through a hallway he hasn’t seen. “Rumlow’s quarters,” he murmurs at Bucky’s questioning glance, gesturing at one of the doors. Then he points opposite. “Pierce.” 

“Where’s the thing?”

“Here.” Barton points at another door, then over to the window at the end of the hallway. “If we go out the window, we can climb through the other one—”

Bucky shakes his head and kneels down, pulling a set of lock picks from his bag. He makes short work of the lock, easing the door open. “There,” he murmurs.

“The hell did you learn to do that?” Barton asks, looking impressed.

Bucky shrugs. “Not the time. Let’s get this and go.”

Barton nods and moves into the room. It’s some kind of observatory, with a desk and bookshelf and various telescopes and other things facing out a large, floor-to-ceiling window. There’s a tiny safe tucked away on the bookshelf, and Barton goes to it, pulling a little piece of paper out of his pocket.

“You know the combination?”

“Yeah.” He looks down at the paper with a grimace. “They think they’re slick, using letters instead of numbers, but then they go ahead and write it down on paper, so there really ain’t a damn point to it.” He squints at it and starts rolling the lock. “Keep an eye out, there’s soldiers roaming around the place.”

Bucky closes the door and goes to the desk, rifling through the papers on it. There’s nothing too important, at least not at first glance. Lots of correspondence between Pierce and someone named Major Toht. Mostly Nazi diatribe against Jews, which turns Bucky’s stomach, but it’s pretty much what he expected. He sees a couple of them that look particularly interesting—one that mentions the Staff of Ra, and another that has a couple lines about Sankara stones. 

He turns to Barton. “You done yet?”

“Gimme a break,” Barton says. “This is in German and it’s _long_. I’m doing my best.”

“Well, why don’t you let me—”

There’s a shout from outside, and Bucky turns to see a man peering through the window at them. He bangs twice on the glass, pointing a furious finger in their direction before turning and yelling a muffled string of German words.

“We gotta go,” Bucky says, crossing the room. “Barton. Leave it.”

“No!” Barton keeps concentrating on the lock. “I can get it!”

“Let me—” Bucky grabs the paper from him, skimming the two words. “You said this was German!”

“It is!”

“It’s in _English_ —”

Thundering footsteps sound from in the house, accompanied by yells in German. Bucky glances over his shoulder, and Barton snatches up the paper. “I can do it,” he snaps, spinning the lock again. It clicks open just as the door handle wiggles, and someone pounds on the door.

“ _Open the door!_ ” someone yells in German.

Barton snorts. “As if,” he says, and then beams. “Got it!” The safe pops open, and he reaches in. “Morons. You got something valuable, you keep it on your person.”

“Barton, we have to go—”

“And we’re going.” He points at the window. “This way.”

“Out the windows?”

“Welcome to chaos,” Barton says with a grin. He grabs the chair from behind the desk and hurls it. It slams into the window, shattering it with an impressive crash. “Let’s move, yeah?”

He grabs Bucky’s hand and drags him towards the shattered window. They climb over the frame and drop onto the sand below, sprinting around to the other side of the house.

“Cars out front,” Barton says, peering over the low stone wall at the front of the house.

“We need keys?”

He holds up one. “Big Cadillac on the left there.”

“Why that one?”

Barton snickers. “Rumlow’s car.” He looks around, then hops over the wall. “Follow me.”

There’s more shouts behind them, but they manage to make it to the car without any difficulties. Barton shoves the key in the ignition and turns it on. “Hold on,” he says, and throws the car into reverse. He slams the gas, sending them shooting backwards on a curve, then grinds it into drive and slams the pedal to the floor. The car lurches forward with a thunderous growl and he lets out a loud whoop of excitement. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Bucky struggles to sit upright in the seat, twisting to look in the rearview mirror. Behind them, people are pouring into the driveway, over half of them armed. Several are grabbing for their own cars, sliding into jeeps. A kaleidoscope of headlights blare into the darkness, spinning wildly and turning to catch the Cadillac’s mirrors.

“Where are we going?” Bucky yells, bracing himself against the floor.

“I don’t know,” Barton answers, eyes on the road. “I haven’t gotten that far.” He glances at the steering wheel. “Don’t suppose you know where the lights are in this thing?”

Bucky shakes his head, but reaches forward and pulls open the glovebox. “Might be a manual in here?”

“You’re such a professor,” Barton snorts, and starts flicking knobs and switches. After a moment, lights illuminate the road in front of them. “Ah, there we go.”

“We have to lose them,” Bucky says.

“Really? I was gonna lead them on a nice night drive, then invite them out for a drink.” He shoves the gas down more, sending the car lurching forward. “I know we need to lose them, Dr. Barnes. Ideas welcome.”

“I don’t know.” Bucky tries to think. “We’re not that far from Girga. I have a hotel there.”

“We can’t stay there, they’re connected to the dig—”

“I wasn’t suggesting staying there. But we might be able to lose them in the streets.”

“How? Not like there’s crowds at four in the morning.”

Bucky frowns. “Right.” He turns and looks behind them. “We should’ve taken a jeep. They have the advantage. Cadillacs really aren’t off-road vehicles.”

“Point,” Barton admits, eyes on the road. “I wasn’t thinking about that. Just wanted to piss Rumlow off.”

Bucky sighs. “You know, I don’t think your plans go wrong because you’re cursed by a chaos god, I think they go wrong because you never plan ahead.”

“Why can’t it be both?” Barton asks. The needle’s pushing over one-hundred now, and his hands are tightly clenched on the wheel. “I mean—when I can’t find my shoes, is that not planning ahead, or is that chaos god?”

“I lose my shoes too,” Bucky says, looking over his shoulder again. They’re actually starting to pull ahead now. “I think that’s just called being human.”

“Mmm.” Barton looks at the dashboard, then starts laughing. It’s not really amused—it’s on the verge of hysterical, almost, like he’s _this_ close to absolutely losing it. “And what would you call this?”

“Call what?”

“We’re out of gas.”

“What?”

“Gas.” Barton nods at the gauge. “We’re out.”

“You’re joking.”

“I wish I was.” Barton laughs again, rubbing a hand over his face. “So? Chaos or not planning?”

“I think we can chalk this one up to chaos,” Bucky says. “Are...should we stop?”

Barton looks like he’s about to scream. “Well, either we stop with dignity, or we let them catch us ten miles down the road when the car won’t run anymore. Got a preference?”

“What did Rumlow do to you?” Bucky asks instead, studying his face.

Barton’s fingers tighten on the wheel. “We were together,” he says. “As in, _together_. For two years. We have history. He likes to remind me of that, and I don’t cooperate so nicely with him these days. So...” He laughs again, that sharp, almost-frightened sound, and shakes his head. “So he hits me and takes what he wants anyway.”

Bucky doesn’t need more details. He can read the implications behind the words. “We should stop,” he says, half because he’d rather call the fight with some dignity, and half because he has a sudden urge to shoot Rumlow in the face. He’s not normally a violent person, but anyone who can twist Barton’s sunny demeanor to look like _that_ doesn’t deserve anything less.

“Yeah,” Barton says. He takes his foot off the gas. “Too bad we don’t have a white flag to raise, or something.”

“I think they’ll get the picture.” Bucky looks around. “Shame we can’t do something about the car. Blow it up or something.”

“Big ideas for a professor,” Barton says, sounding delighted.

“I don’t just sit behind a desk, you know.” Bucky gestures around the car. “I do fieldwork. That’s how I ended up here.”

“I know that. I just watched you dust off rocks for a week.” There’s a hint of amusement in his words. “Looked good doing it, too.”

“I—” Bucky starts, but then he’s distracted by a flare of headlights in the distance, quickly growing larger. “Watch out.”

Barton makes a sound of acknowledgment, and he maneuvers the car over to the side of the road, pulling off into the sand. Almost immediately, they’re surrounded by the convoy of jeeps that was following them, lights blaring in through the windows. 

“Fun while it lasted,” Barton sighs, looking forlornly at the road they were just on. “Should’ve thrown the damn thing out the window.”

From the circle of jeeps, Bucky sees Rumlow step forward. He looks a mix of furious and triumphant, raising an eyebrow as he meets Bucky’s gaze through the windshield. _Come on out_ , his expression says, and Bucky has that urge to shoot him again.

“I should run him over,” Barton mutters, but he doesn’t. He just pries his fingers off the steering wheel, then turns the key, killing the engine. He looks like he’s about two seconds from leaning his forehead on the steering wheel.

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says.

Barton lets out a hollow laugh and rubs a hand through his hair. “Not your fault,” he sighs. “None of this is. I dragged you into it. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

Rumlow taps a hand on the hood of the car. “I will drag you out of there,” he calls.

“Oh, I’m sure he’d just _love_ that,” Barton mutters. “On my knees in front of everyone, the goddamn megalomaniac.” He casts a rueful glance in Bucky’s direction. “I was really looking forward to that drink.”

“So was I,” Bucky says, and he opens his door, carefully stepping onto the sand. Barton does the same on the other side.

“You got something against nighttime drives?” he asks, and Bucky wonders if anyone else can hear the notes of worry and defeat in his voice.

“I have something against you stealing my car,” Rumlow snaps, striding forward. “Where the hell did you think you were going, huh?” His hand closes around Barton’s throat and he shoves him against the side of the car, other hand roughly rummaging through his pockets.

“Away from you is a good start,” Barton grits out, one hand going up to Rumlow’s wrist. “Let go of me—“

“How’d you even get out?”

“Should’ve tied ‘em tighter.” Barton kicks Rumlow in the knee, deftly twisting away from him. Rumlow snarls and reaches for him, but Barton vaults over the hood of the car, moving to stand by Bucky. “Don’t know what you expected, really.”

“I don’t know why I’m keeping you alive,” Rumlow growls, gesturing at the other soldiers. Then it’s deja-vu, Bucky being stripped of his gun and whip again, and his hands tied in front of him. He fights the urge to scream, looking instead up at the road. The car is still approaching, he thinks, although the lights are off now. He’s not sure what that’s about. 

“Chaos god,” Barton says as they do the same to him. “Need me to wipe out all your least favorite people, remember?” He smiles coldly. “Think I can offer you in exchange?”

“Shut the hell up.” Rumlow pulls out his gun, aiming it at Bucky. “I _will_ shoot him.” His voice is laced with danger and fury, sending a chill down Bucky’s spine. “I should, you know. I should hurt him. Maybe take some fingers, or an eye. That would put a damper on his career, don’t you think? And it’d be your fault. We’d all know it.”

Bucky tenses, and Barton clenches his jaw. “Don’t,” he says quietly, one hand reaching forward. “Don’t—Rumlow, please. I’m the one who pissed you off. You wanna hurt someone, hurt me.”

_He already did_ , Bucky wants to scream, looking at Barton’s black eye, but he keeps his mouth shut. This isn’t the time.

“You don’t care what happens to you,” Rumlow says. “But you care about what happens to him. So this is your last warning. Cooperate with us, or he’s going to pay for it in blood. Understand?”

“Clear as crystal,” says another voice, cool and feminine, and the entire group turns around. There’s a figure standing on the bank of the road, slightly above them, backlit by the moon. Bucky can’t make out a face, but there’s something in her hand, and she pulls back like she’s going to throw it—

“Down!” he yells, tackling Barton to the ground. He doesn’t know what she’s got, but it looks like a grenade, and he covers Barton as best as he can.

It’s not an explosion, not really. It's like a flash of light, something he can see through his closed eyes, and a loud sound that practically deafens him. His ears ring, and he’s instantly dizzy, like he’s been punched in the face.

A slim hand closes around his bicep, pulling up with a surprising amount of strength. He stumbles to his feet, off-balance and nauseated, unable to do anything but follow the insistent pressure on his arm. He feels more than sees Barton coming with him, which reassures him a little—whatever the hell is happening, at least they’re going together.

He forces his eyes open. It’s the woman from before—she’s got his bag slung over a shoulder, and one hand around his arm, another on Barton’s shoulder. Barton looks just as dazed and confused as he feels as she drags them up to the road, shoving them both into the backseat of a car. They tumble in and she slams the door shut. A moment later, the car starts moving, spinning in a dizzying movement before roaring off down the road.

It takes a long time for him to come back to himself, and his ears are still ringing, vision still spotty. But he manages to disentangle himself from Barton enough to lean forward over the seat in front of him. “Who the hell are you?” he asks—yells, really.

“Natalia,” she says, loud and clear. “I’m a friend of Clint’s.”

Barton makes a noise next to him, opening his eyes. “Tasha?” he asks, voice rough.

“Yes, it’s me,” she says, flicking her eyes to him in the mirror.

A happy, still slightly dazed look crosses Barton’s face. “You came,” he says, sounding delighted. “You—you’re here.”

“Of course I am.” There’s a hint of amusement in her voice, fond exasperation on top of it. “Where else would I be? Someone has to come pull you out of the fire.”

“I’m a grown man,” Barton says, grinning. “I can take care of myself.” He unties Bucky’s hands, then holds his own out. 

“Uh-huh. And what was your plan for that one?”

“I never plan,” he says. “You know that. Also, apparently I’ve been cursed by a chaos god, so it’s really not my fault that everything goes wrong.”

Natalia makes a skeptical noise. “You hit your head or something?”

“What was that?” Bucky asks, untying him. “That thing you threw.”

“It’s called a flash-bang grenade.” She reaches into a bag on the passenger seat and hands one back to him. “A prototype of Tony Stark.”

“The engineering mogul?”

“Yes. We’re friends.” She glances into the backseat. “You look like hell, Barton.”

“Rumlow.” Barton sits up a little more, bracing himself against the window. “It’s a hell of a story, really.”

“Surprising no one.” She sighs. “Who’s your friend?”

“I’m Dr. Barnes,” Bucky says. “I’m an archeologist.”

“I’ve heard of you. What are you doing hanging out with this one?”

“We were kidnapped by Nazis,” Bucky says. “I was working on the dig in Thinis with Dr. Wilson. They wanted something. A _Was-_ scepter head.”

Barton nods. “They want to summon the god Set and make a deal with him to wipe out their enemies.”

Natalia, for her part, just takes the news in stride. “Alright,” she says. “And they took you because?”

“Apparently,” Barton says, “I’m descended from the guy who summoned him. Oh, and also Set cursed him and his family with chaos, so...yeah. Like I said. Not my fault.”

Natalia makes a quiet noise. “You believe this?”

“To a degree,” Bucky says. “I’d like more proof, and I’m not sure I completely believe in gods, but that scepter head—there is something powerful to it. And when I was tracing the lineage, and following the path of the scepter itself...there’s possibly some evidence to what they’re saying.” He shrugs. “I’ve seen enough to know not to dismiss something because _I_ don’t believe it.”

“How did you find us?” Barton asks. “I didn’t even know I was getting out until I did.”

“I knew you were at the site in Thinis,” she says. “Kate told me. I was coming to find you, to ask for your help with something. But then I showed up, and you weren’t there. Someone saw you ride off with Rumlow and his crew. Just a matter of deduction after that. I started driving out the way, intending on going to their headquarters, and then...” She waves a hand at the road. “There you were.”

“Oh. Where’s Kate?”

“Brazil, now. A friend needed something.”

Bucky looks back and forth between them. “How do you know each other?”

“She’s a fence.” Barton sits up. “She helps me sell things.”

“Ah.” Bucky’s mouth curls with disapproval. “Another grave robber.”

“I’m not a grave robber,” Natalia says. “I’ve never set foot in a grave. Barton does the acquiring, I do the selling.”

“So you’re complicit.”

She shrugs, unbothered. “I use my talents. This is what I’m good at.”

Bucky sighs, leaning back against his seat. “Well. I appreciate the rescue. We were…in trouble.”

“This one is always in trouble,” she says, handing back his bag. “I got your stuff, by the way. Or at least, I assumed it’s yours. I saw them take it off you.”

“It is,” Bucky says. “Thank you.” He tucks the bag next to him, checking to make sure his gun and whip are inside. “Where are we going?”

“I have a plane.”

“Where?”

“Available.” She meets his eyes in the mirror. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“I’m a professor.” Bucky turns to look behind them. It doesn’t look like anyone’s following, no headlights in the distance or anything. She’s driving without lights entirely, “Goes with the territory.”

“Tasha doesn’t like answering questions,” Barton says. “I asked her about her family once, and she stabbed a knife next to my hand and told me to shut the hell up. It was great.” She laughs quietly at that. “Anyway, Tash, we can’t get on a plane.”

“There’s a lot of people after you,” she says. “You really think sticking around here is a good idea?”

“We have to get to Abbabbas.”

“What?”

“Abydos,” Bucky corrects. “We need to go there. The information they had says that’s the scepter’s last known location.”

“So won’t the Nazis be going there too?”

“We told them it was in Memphis.”

“And they believed you?”

“He’s real smart,” Barton says. “Got the fancy degrees to prove it. Also, they trust him more than me.”

Natalia lets out a dry laugh. “Surprising no one.”

Barton scowls at her. “Point being, we need to go there.”

“To Abydos.”

“Yes.”

Bucky leans forward again. “I know you’re skeptical,” he says. “And that’s fair. But even if none of this is real, the Nazis really, really want that scepter. I don’t think they should have it.”

“Not just the Nazis,” Barton adds. “Rumlow, specifically, really wants it. And so we shouldn’t let him. Even if it doesn’t _do_ anything, and it’s just worth a lot...I still don’t want him having it.”

Natalia nods. “Alright,” she says. “We’re already heading in that direction. I can take you to Abydos.”

“Thank you,” Barton says. He leans over the seat and presses a kiss to her cheek. “You’re amazing. You know that, right?”

“I do,” she says fondly. “Sit down, Clint. Abydos isn’t that far from Girga, we’ll be there soon.”

“It’s too late to just go walking into the dig,” Bucky says. “We’ll need somewhere to stay until morning.”

“I can find us a hotel room,” Natalia says confidently. “Just relax, Dr. Barnes. Let a girl work her magic.”

Bucky doesn’t hold a particular amount of confidence in her words, but he trusts Barton, and Barton trusts her. So he just nods and sits back in his seat, picking out familiar constellations in the night sky, and watching the darkened desert slide by in a blur out his window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta’ed by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	6. Chapter Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barton is _looking_ at him again, and Bucky has this odd feeling that Barton can see right through him, peel him apart and see the root of who he is. Bucky rarely gets to talk about his passion for history, and it feels damn good to see the interest on Barton’s face, like he could listen to Bucky go on for hours about it.

Natalia does manage to find them a hotel room in Girga. Two, in fact, and the front desk clerk offers her a friendly smile with the room keys. “Have a nice stay,” he says.

“Hope you don’t mind sharing,” she says, handing Barton one of them. “I like my space.”

“That’s fine.” Bucky’s shared plenty of rooms, and if she’s paying, he doesn’t have a right to complain. “Not like we’re here long anyway.”

She smiles and disappears down the hallway to her own room. Barton watches her go, then turns to Bucky. “I’m really not tired,” he says, turning the key over in his hand.

“I’m not either,” Bucky admits, even though he knows he should be. “We should try and sleep, though.”

“Could go get that drink.”

Bucky pauses, then nods. “Yeah. I suppose we could.”

Barton taps the front desk, and the clerk looks up. “Any bars open around here?”

They’re directed to a seedy-looking tavern a couple blocks down. It’s empty when they walk in, and the bartender looks less than thrilled to have people coming through the door. She waves a hand at the bar, and they both take a seat.

“I’m Marion,” she says. “What can I get you?”

“Double whiskey, neat,” Bucky says, and Barton echoes him. She pours them their drinks, then retreats to the far side of the bar, cleaning out glasses with sharp motions bordering on vengeance.

Barton takes a sip. “So. Tell me about Aby—Aba—”

“Abydos.” Bucky tries his own drink. It’s not the best, but he’s had worse. “It’s technically Abdju, in the ancient Egyptian language. Abydos is a Greek pronunciation.”

“Oh?” Barton swirls the whiskey in his glass.

“Yes. It’s a very religious city. You mentioned there being a shrine to Osiris there, and you’re right—at one point it was a cult center for Osiris. There was a temple dedicated to him, and every year they held a procession from his temple to a tomb they thought was his.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“No, it belonged to a king named Djer.” Bucky shrugs. “Point being, it was culturally significant for Osiris, and like you said—they were enemies in some of the myths. It would make sense to store the scepter there, especially if what Pierce said is true. Even broken, the scepter itself probably still has power.”

He nods. “How do we get in there?”

“Oh, that part’s easy. I know the person running the dig.”

That gets a laugh. “Do you know every person running digs around here?”

“It’s a surprisingly small community,” Bucky says, taking a drink. “We’re all pretty familiar with each other.”

Barton throws the rest of his back. “Who’s running it?”

“Dr. Shuri Adanna. She works at Wakanda College up in Maine. She’s been running this one for about six months.” He traces a finger down the condensation on the glass. “I met her at a dinner a few years ago, and we’ve collaborated a few times since then. She’s an absolute genius. She’s published so many papers; she had this great one on the Chachapoyan Fertility Idol. It was unbelievable. I taught a whole summer class on her findings.”

“She sounds interesting,” Barton says, and it’s not a pandering tone. He sounds like he _means_ it, like he’s actually intrigued by her, and it warms Bucky’s heart a little. He’s aware, on most levels, that his job and his interests are fairly niche. Most relationships he’s attempted—no matter who it was with—have fizzled out because of a lack of common ground. But Barton sounds interested, and he’s looking at Bucky like he’s waiting for more information, and it’s just...

Nice. It’s nice.

“She’s a hell of a woman.” Bucky finishes his drink. “I’ll introduce you, if she’s around tomorrow. Don’t mention the grave robbing, though. She’s fiercer than I am about protecting history.”

Barton grins. “That so?”

“Yes. You steal anything from her site, I will not be responsible for what she does to you. Understood?”

“Yes sir,” Barton says, and Bucky’s heart beats a little faster at the mischievous smirk on his face. He trusts Barton to keep his word, but there’s just something about the way he’s _looking_ at Bucky right now, like he wants to—

Bucky clears his throat and waves Marion over, silently asking for a refill. “So,” he says. “Tell me about you.”

“Oh no,” Barton says, still smirking. “We already played that game. Tell me about _you_. How does one get into archeology?”

Bucky picks up his new drink. “Love for history, mostly, and a good path to it growing up. My father was a professor on medieval literature, so it was pretty much a foregone conclusion that I’d be going into academia.”

“Did you get along with him? Your father.”

The question makes Bucky pause. He swirls the whiskey around in his glass, then shakes his head. “Not as much as I wish I would’ve. We clashed a lot, particularly after my mother died, and we were estranged for a long time after that.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“We made up, eventually. We get along fairly well now. I see him at holidays, and he’s actually helped me out several times with some archeological things.”

“He’s still around?”

“Oh, very much so. He’s too stubborn to die. He’ll be alive fifty years from now, clinging to his books and shouting about the Holy Grail.”

“The Holy—”

“Don’t ask.” Bucky shakes his head. “Long, long story.”

“Alright.” Barton runs his finger around the rim of the glass, studying Bucky over the slow motion with an intense gaze.

“What,” Bucky finally says.

“Just trying to figure you out,” Barton says. “You’re a professor. An archeologist. You like books and reading and digging in the dirt, but you’re very relaxed about being spontaneously kidnapped by Nazis and starting on a quest for a magic staff you don’t _really_ believe in. It’s just...you’re not what I expected.”

“You were expecting something?”

“No, I mean...” Barton waves a hand. “I’ve been to dig sites before, right? I’ve posed as a worker to get it, it’s really one of the easiest ways. So I’ve run into people like you before. Professors and bookworms, clutching their glasses and their books and shouting about skeletons. Most of them look like they’ve never seen the outside of a library before.” He gestures to Bucky. “But then you come along, and you’ve got a whip and a gun, and you can pick locks and you’re good with stealing cars, and it’s just...different.”

“Sometimes history is found in odd places. You have to be ready for anything and everything. Books and libraries have their place—most of archeology is done in a library, really—but there does come a point when you have to get out into the field.” Bucky sips his drink, thinking about all the adventures he’s had. “I want to feel the dirt in my hands, stand where they stood, read their stories, live their ceremonies. It’s like putting together a puzzle, seeing how people lived in the past. If we understand our history, we understand ourselves. I’ve never found anything more worth spending the time on.”

Barton is _looking_ at him again, and Bucky has this odd feeling that Barton can see right through him, peel him apart and see the root of who he is. Bucky rarely gets to talk about his passion for history, and it feels damn good to see the interest on Barton’s face, like he could listen to Bucky go on for hours about it.

“Wow,” he eventually says. “You kinda make _me_ want to be an archeologist, honestly.”

“You could.” Bucky nods at him. “You’re smart. Even when I didn’t know who you were, you were impressing the hell out of me at the dig site. You knew the names and the techniques, you clearly have a good handle on fieldwork. The rest of it’s just window dressing. You could easily get a degree.”

Barton suddenly looks uncomfortable. “I’m...not the best at school.”

“It’s mostly just a lot of reading and writing,” Bucky says, thinking of his own degree. “I basically lived in a library for a long stretch of years. But you pick up information very quickly, you could—”

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Barton says, and he reaches over, grabbing Bucky’s drink from his hand to finish it. “In the meantime, want to get out of here?”

“I—what?”

“To the hotel,” Barton says, setting the glass down.

“I’m still not tired.”

“I didn’t mean to sleep.” He meets Bucky’s gaze, raising an eyebrow, and his tone suddenly takes on a different meaning. “If you were interested.”

The sudden shift in topic has Bucky reeling a bit, and it takes him a moment to put some semblance of thoughts together. “I’m—well—I don’t—”

“We don’t have to.” Barton shrugs. “Won’t hurt my feelings. But I thought you might be up for it. That was the impression I was getting.”

Bucky stares at him, because despite twenty-seven languages and an undergraduate degree in linguistics, he can’t think of any damn thing to say. He’s never been propositioned so fast in his life, and he’s not really sure how to respond. “I’m—”

Barton looks amused now. “I take it this doesn’t happen to you often.”

“Believe it or not,” Bucky says dryly, “people aren’t exactly lining up to go steady with guys like me.”

“Really? They should be.” He hops to his feet. “We should go, anyway. I think the place is closing.”

It does look like that. Marion is very obviously stacking glasses and side-eyeing them, her body language screaming for them to leave. Bucky pays for the drinks, then follows Barton back out into the darkness. It’s getting towards dawn, the sky slowly starting to lighten.

Barton shoves his hands in his pockets, glancing up. “Later than I thought. Or earlier, I guess.”

“Early.” Bucky glances at his wristwatch. “Yeah. It’s almost five in the morning.”

“When did you want to go to the site?”

“As soon as we can, preferably. The sooner the—” He stops, then grabs Barton’s arm, yanking him down the nearest street.

Barton makes a short noise. “Whoa, hey—I’m cool with an alleyway but—”

“Shush,” Bucky says, face reddening at the implication. “I’m not—that’s not what I’m doing, I thought I saw Rumlow’s car.”

“What?” Barton leans around him, peering out into the street. “How? How would they even know we’re here?”

Bucky shakes his head. “I don’t know. I’m probably just being paranoid.”

“Let me see.” Barton leans a little further around him. Bucky tries not to think about how close together they are right now, how all he would need to do is tug Barton up a little straighter and then he could kiss him—

“Shit,” Barton mutters, and pulls back. “Chaos god, huh?”

“That’s him?”

“That’s him.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.”

A sudden thought strikes Bucky, and there’s a sinking feeling in his stomach. He rummages through his bag, the feeling getting worse. “I don’t have my notebook.”

“What?”

“My notebook.” Bucky gestures to his bag. “My—I was making all my notes in it. About the translations. I left it there.”

Barton stares at him. “How?”

“It was in my room, and then you came in, and I wasn’t expecting to leave in the middle of the night!”

Barton sighs and rubs his forehead. “I’m assuming you wrote things about Abbybos?”

“Abydos, and yes, there was a notation for it. Or at the very least, they can follow the trail I found.” Bucky grimaces. “That’s not good.”

“No, it’s not.” Barton looks around the corner again. “It’s just the car. I don’t see any sign of them.” He leans back against the brick wall and sighs. “Okay. Change of plans. We’re going to the dig site. We gotta talk to this lady as soon as we can.”

“I’m sorry,” Bucky says. “I’m usually more careful. I don’t—I can’t believe I left it there; I’ve got other stuff in there too.” He scowls. “I have notes on the Thinis dig, and some personal things in there.”

“We’ll get it back,” Barton promises. “Chances are they brought it with them. I’m real good at pickpocketing.”

“What if Rumlow’s got it?”

“Even better,” Barton says, and a dark look crosses his face, drawing the bruise around his eye into sharp relief.

Almost without permission, Bucky’s hand comes up. He lays his palm against Barton’s cheek, thumbing gently over the bruise. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs.

“You didn’t give it to me,” Barton says with a wry smile. “Got nothing to apologize for.”

“I’m sorry it happened to you.” Bucky fights the urge to pull him into a kiss. “That you have to deal with him. And that we got away, and I led them right back to us.”

Barton’s hand comes up, covering over his for a moment before pulling it down. “I’ll deal with it,” he says softly. “Like I always do.”

“ _We’ll_ deal with it,” Bucky corrects. “I’m not letting you do it alone. Not this time.”

There’s a look in Barton’s eye, like he’s hesitant to believe him. But he nods anyway, then points the opposite direction. “Where even is this dig?”

“A little ways out of town,” Bucky says. “We’ll need the car.”

“We can borrow Natasha’s.”

“I thought she was Natalia?”

Barton leads the way down the street. “She’s Natasha, to me. Natalia’s her professional name, but when we met, we were both about to be executed, so we didn’t really cover the formalities.”

Bucky blinks. “Executed?”

“Executed. We, uh...well, I was drinking in a bar in Cairo, actually. Nice place, good drinks. She was sitting alone, and this group of guys kept trying to sit with her, and she kept telling them no. Well, they didn’t like that, so one of them got grabby. I punched him in the face, and she hit the other one in the throat, and we started this huge bar fight. Both of us got arrested—not the guys, which I think was unfair, but we were strangers and they were locals—so we got picked up.”

“And that was cause to execute you?”

“Well...” Barton rubs a hand through his hair, looking sheepish. “No. I actually tried to pickpocket the guard for the keys, which worked, but then they caught us escaping, and Natasha may or may not have blown up half the prison on our way out.” Bucky raises an eyebrow, and he holds up both hands. “It was empty! They were renovating. But it happened, so...” He grins. “They caught us, and decided we were too much trouble. So they were going to execute us.”

“How’d you get out of that one?”

“Oh, sheer dumb luck, mostly. We make it out of this, I’ll tell you the full story.”

“Hold you to that,” Bucky says.

They make it back to the hotel, and Barton easily breaks into the car. “I’ll just hot-wire it,” he says, reaching under the dashboard.

“She’s not going to be real happy to wake up and find her car gone.”

“Eh, she probably stole it anyway. She does that. And she’s used to this. It’s not the first time I’ve stolen her car.” The engine roars to life, and he lets out a loud whoop. “Alright, which way?”

“Uh,” Bucky says, trying to remember. He’s never been here before, but Shuri had written him a letter when she first took over, inviting him out. “About ten kilometers north of the city, if I remember correctly.”

Ten kilometers later, he recognizes the usual markers of a site, tents and signposts and ropes all set up. He directs Barton to the biggest tent, parking the car next to a beat up old military jeep. That’s a good sign, at least, that somebody is already here.

They’re greeted by tall, younger looking black woman as they climb out of the car. She’s dressed in a white linen shirt and khaki pants that accentuate her long legs, and her hair is done up in two tight knobs on either side of her head. She looks confused at first, but then a wide smile splits her face as she recognizes him, and she opens her arms for Bucky. “Dr. Barnes,” she says, her accented voice light and happy. “It’s so good to see you again! What brings you out here?”

“Hi, Shuri,” Bucky says, hugging her. “Good to see you too. I’m in the area, I was working on the dig at Thinis.”

“Oh, I heard!” She beams at him, eyes excited. “I was hoping to head out that way myself at some point. How is it?”

“Fascinating.” He feels the urge to sit down and talk with her, share all the things he’s been finding, but he makes himself turn to wave Barton over instead. They’re on a mission. He can save that for later. “Shuri, this is Clint Barton. He’s a friend of mine.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she says, offering a hand, and he shakes it.

“Pleasure’s all mine.” He nods at her. “Dr. Barnes was telling me all about you. I’m glad to meet you in person.”

She smiles and turns back to Bucky. “So? What brings you out here from Thinis?”

“We’re looking for something,” Bucky says. “A _Was-_ scepter. Well, just the staff part, actually. We—“ He stops, turns to Barton. “Do we still have the other part?”

He nods. “We got away before he could take it. I’ve got it.” He pulls the head out of his pocket and holds it up.

Shuri’s eyes get wide. “Oh,” she breathes. “That’s—wow, that’s gorgeous. You found this?”

“At the site, yes.” He debates for a moment, wondering how much to tell her. She’s a good friend, and an amazing archeologist, and she’s ten times smarter than he is. But he doesn’t want to drag her into this whole thing. So he settles for, “There’s some people looking to steal it. We need to find the other half—the staff. Our research led us to believe it would be here, in Abydos.”

Shuri nods, tapping a finger against her lips. “I think you might be in luck, Dr. Barnes. We actually just excavated a room last month in the Osiris temple, and I believe...” She trails off, then motions them inside the tent. “Come in, come in.”

It’s like a war room in the tent, tables and papers and maps scattered everywhere, held down by rocks and stacks of books. A little part of Bucky shivers in happiness, the sight of it all making him feel like he’s finally at home. He trails his fingers over a stack of books, noting the titles. There’s several in here he’d love to read if he had time, and even—

“Look,” he says, holding up one of them and turning to Barton. “This is mine.”

Barton looks suitably impressed. “You _wrote_ that?”

“It’s my doctoral thesis,” Bucky says. “On Thinis.”

“That’s _amazing_.”

Shuri makes a pleased noise and turns back to them. “Here,” she says, holding up a piece of paper. “Manifest for Room A.” She sets it on a table and crooks a finger. “Here we go. One staff, broken, found on a shelf in an antechamber.”

Bucky nods. “And where is it now?”

“Cairo.”

“What?”

“We sent it there almost a month ago. We were fairly certain it was a _Was-_ scepter, and the Egyptian Museum representative asked if they could put it on display.”

Barton makes a disappointed noise. “So we have to go to Cairo, now?”

Shuri looks between them. “Who is trying to steal it?”

“Some guy named Rumlow,” Barton says. “He has this wild theory that if you put the staff and the head together, you can summon Set and use it to take over the world.”

Shuri blinks, then slowly nods. “Alright then,” she says, voice skeptical. “That’s...interesting.”

Bucky sighs. “I know what it sounds like, Shuri, but this guy really believes it.”

“But it’s not true,” she says, eyeing him. “So why even bother trying to stop him? Surely museum security will take care of it.”

“He’s dangerous,” Barton says quietly. “They all are. We just...need to stop them.”

Bucky nods in agreement. “Humor me on this one. If anyone else comes asking after this, we need you to lie, or redirect. Don’t let them get ahold of this list.” 

Shuri still looks skeptical, but she nods. “I...suppose,” she says. “I can hide the manifest, and there were only a few people working on that room. I don’t think any of them are around anymore. But if I see them, I’ll make sure to let them know.”

“We really appreciate it,” Bucky says. He gestures out towards the car. “Barton, we should get going. It’s almost six hours to Cairo.”

“Ugh,” Barton says, but he nods and holds out his hand again. “Nice to meet you, Dr. Adanna. Thanks for the information.”

“You sure I can’t convince you to stay?” she asks. “I’d love to show you around the site, Dr. Barnes. You and your friend. We can always use another set of hands.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Sorry. We need to get moving.” He opens his arms. “Lovely as always to see you, Shuri.”

“You too,” she says, kissing him on the cheek. “Whatever trouble you’re getting into, please remember to get out of it in one piece. Understand me?”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, and she smiles.

They go back out to the car. Barton leans on the roof, propping his chin on his arms. The sun is peeking over the horizon now, bathing the world in a wash of gold. “So,” he says, and Bucky draws himself out of his thoughts. “To Cairo?”

“We should tell your friend,” Bucky says.

Barton nods. “Okay. Stop by the hotel, tell Tasha, get ourselves to Cairo. You know where this museum is?”

“I’ve been there.”

“Great.” Barton opens his door. “Hop in, then. Sooner we get this whole thing over with, the sooner we can move onto more interesting things.”

Bucky laughs, getting in his side of the car. “Like?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” Barton says, and casts him a sly smile. “I’m sure we can think of _something_.”

He’s not sure if he should read into that or not—if there’s really even anything to read into, Barton’s made it pretty clear what he’s interested in—so he just nods and says, “Probably, yes,” and leans back in his seat. He keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the window, and does his best not to look at the way the sunlight is glittering off Barton’s blond hair, wrapping him in a warm glow, like he’s lit up from the inside out. 

They get back to the hotel without incident. By unspoken agreement they go in the side door rather than the front, and make their way to Natalia’s room. Barton knocks twice. When she doesn’t answer, he frowns and gestures at the door. “Can you pick this one too?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, kneeling down. A few seconds later, he has the door open. “There you go.”

“Thanks. Tasha? You in here?” He walks into the room, and Bucky follows. It’s empty, bed still made, no sign that anyone’s even been in here at all.

Barton looks around and sighs. “She left,” he says, picking up a notepad by the phone. There’s a symbol drawn on it, some kind of circular swirl that’s mesmerizing to follow. “This is hers. Her way of telling me she had to go.”

Bucky nods. “Where she’d go, though? We took her car.”

“Who knows?” Barton shrugs. “That’s Tasha for you. She shows up, does something amazing, and vanishes into the wind. That’s why I love her. She’s a low-maintenance friendship.” They go back out into the hallway. “Also, now we get to keep her car, I guess.”

“Well that’s...helpful.” Bucky rubs his chin. “We ought to get moving. I trust Shuri to keep secrets, but if they ask around at the site, it’s not unlikely they’ll figure out where we’re going. We need to keep moving.”

“We can go,” Barton says. “I’ll drive.” He shuts her door and offers a crooked smile at Bucky. “You up for some more adventure?”

“Always,” Bucky says, and follows him out to the car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta’ed by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	7. Chapter Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’re very close together, Bucky realizes. Closer than they’ve been ever before, even closer than when he was suturing Barton’s arm, and Bucky’s breath catches a little. He can only barely make out Barton’s features, can’t see any of his expression, but he wonders if it’s like his own, if Barton can feel it too—

Bucky’s never cared for long car rides, but six hours to Cairo passes quickly with Barton in the car. They trade off driving once, letting the other sleep for a few hours, but then the whole last part is spent in easy conversation. Bucky’s not normally a talkative person, but he likes talking to Barton—Barton’s smart, and inquisitive, and funny as hell. It’s easy to talk with him, and entertaining, and it’s probably the best couple of hours Bucky’s spent in a long time.

It’s late morning by the time they arrive in Cairo proper, and both of them are hungry as hell. The museum isn’t open yet, so they park the car on a side street and walk until they find a cafe, where Barton introduces Bucky to _kushari_ —a spicy delicacy Bucky’s somehow never had despite dozens of trips to Egypt. Barton watches as Bucky tries it, and there’s so much genuine joy in his eyes that Bucky can’t help but smile back at him.

When the museum opens, they’re one of the first ones in. Bucky leads Barton through the exhibits, pointing out various items. “They might not have it on display,” he says. “If it was only sent over a few months ago. Might still be down for processing.”

“I don’t suppose you know someone here we could talk to?”

Bucky nods. “Maybe. His name is Dr. Banner, he’s actually a linguistic anthropologist. And a biologist on the side. Brilliant man. I know he does contract work here. He might have an office somewhere. We can ask one of the staff, maybe.”

“Okay.” Barton turns, scanning the room. “How about that guy?”

_That guy_ turns out to be the most unhelpful person Bucky’s ever run into in his entire life, which is really saying something. It takes Bucky nearly ten minutes of talking before he finally admits that yes, there is a Dr. Bruce Banner on staff. No, he’s not here. No, he won’t take them to his office. No, he doesn’t know where Banner can be reached.

“Look,” Bucky finally says, a measure of frustration building in him. “We’re here about a staff. It was sent from the Abydos dig maybe a month ago.”

“What about it?”

“We’re worried someone’s going to try and steal it,” Bucky says “It’s...valuable, and we’re—”

“No one could possibly steal it,” the man says, like the idea is utterly absurd. “There’s nothing to be concerned about.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Look, that’s really not—”

“Sir, I assure you—”

“The people after it are—”

“—that our security is perfectly adequate,” the man says, a little louder. “If you have no legitimate questions, I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to leave the premises.”

“Look, you’re wrong about the—”

“Sir, I would prefer not to have security escort you out, but if that’s what we need—”

“No need,” Barton suddenly says, cutting over them both. He grabs Barton’s arm and drags him away, heading towards the exit. “We’ll leave. Thanks for your help..”

He pulls Bucky all the way out the door and at least two streets away before he lets go, tugging him into a relatively empty alleyway. “What the hell was that?”

“What was what?” Bucky stares at him, eyes wide. Barton’s shorter than him, but in this moment he seems taller, exuding raw presence with a tightly controlled annoyance.

“You can’t walk into a place and tell them you think someone’s gonna steal from them,” Barton says, exasperated. “We—Dr. Barnes, if we end up having to steal the staff ourselves, you just made it ten times harder.”

“Who says _we’re_ going to steal it?” Bucky’s horrified by the thought. “We can’t steal from a museum!”

“How else are we going to get it?”

“You heard the guy, he said the security measures—”

“They’re terrible,” Barton says dismissively. “They patrol on a set routine, and most of them look bored out of their minds. The locks are useless. Give me a chance to case the joint, and I could be in and out before they even realize it’s gone.”

“But we’re not going to—why—we can’t steal it, it’s—”

“Dr. Barnes,” Barton says, and puts a hand on his chest, pushing him back against the wall. “Listen to me. We’ve got a head start, but like you said, there’s a decent chance Rumlow and his crew are going to figure out where the scepter is. If we leave it in there, we’re taking a huge risk that they’re going to take it first. Then we gotta play the game all over again with them. But if we take it—”

“My job is to put things in museums,” Bucky hisses. “Not take things out of them.”

“If we take it,” Barton continues, “then we can figure out what to do with it.”

“Do with it?”

“You know.” He puts his hands together. “We can put it together.”

“I thought we discussed that, Barton. We said it wasn’t a good idea.”

“No, you said it wasn’t a good idea. I didn’t say anything.” He looks at his hand, still splayed on Bucky’s chest, and quickly drops it. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, wondering if Barton could feel his thundering heartbeat. “I don’t—it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” He straightens his shirt, clears his throat. “Okay. We need to look at our options here. Surely there’s something better than stealing the scepter.”

“We could make a copy,” Barton says. “A replica. Steal it, swap ‘em out. You get the real one back home to your college or whatever, and then they get the fake one. Then even if Pierce and Rumlow catch us again, nothing happens when we put the pieces together. Theory disproved, they drop the idea, and we let the real one resurface somewhere else in a few years.” He shrugs. “Best plan I’ve got.”

That...actually sounds somewhat reasonable, and Bucky finds himself considering it. “How would we make a replica?”

Barton flashes that crooked smile. “Easy. I know a guy.”

“Where?”

“Not sure, these days.” He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “I can make some calls, sniff out some contacts. I’ve operated here before, wouldn’t be too much work to go looking around.” He looks at Bucky. “I’d have to leave you alone for a bit. That alright?”

Bucky nods. “Believe it or not, I did operate just fine on my own before meeting you.”

“Yeah, but I bet it wasn’t half as much fun.” Barton raises an eyebrow, a smirk stealing over his face. “Come on, then. We’ll leave you at a cafe somewhere. Get you a book and a coffee and I’ll go do all the work.”

“I’ll go with you,” Bucky says. “If you want.”

The smirk vanishes, traded for something honest and open, and Bucky has that urge again, that desire to flip their positions, pin him against the wall and kiss him until they’re both breathless.

He swallows hard. “I mean—if it’s easier for you to go without me—”

“It is,” Barton says, the words coming out in a rush. “Not a knock against your skills, but the people I work with don’t tend to trust real easy, and they definitely don’t like strangers. It’ll be faster if I go alone.” He pauses, then says, “I’ll be careful.”

“Please do,” Bucky says softly.

They stare at each other for a moment longer, _something_ simmering between them. Then Barton clears his throat and backs up a couple steps. “Come on,” he says, and leads the way out of the alley.

Bucky pulls the brim of his hat down a little. “I’ll find somewhere for us to stay,” he says. “I assume we’re going to be here at least a few days.”

“A night, for sure.” Barton nods. “Okay. Why don’t we split up, and meet back here in a few hours?”

“Works for me.” Bucky hesitates, still feeling that urge to kiss him. The strength of it surprises him. It’s not that he’s never been attracted to people before, but he rarely—if ever—feels like this about it. He’s not entirely sure what to do. 

“Alright.” Barton looks up, glancing at landmarks. “Two hours, then. Meet back here.” He pats Bucky on the arm, then disappears down the street, fading quickly into the crowds.

Bucky stands there for a moment longer, watching him go. “Get it together,” he mutters to himself. “When this is over, he’s gonna go back to doing his thing, and you’re going back to Connecticut. It won’t work.”

He makes himself focus on the task at hand. It doesn’t take long to find a nice little out-of-the-way motel, and he gets two rooms. Then he makes his way back to the museum, getting a table at a cafe across the way where he can watch for Barton.

Two hours turns into three, then three and a half, and there’s still no sign of him. Bucky drinks a coffee and gets food, trying to keep his anxiety levels under control. Even if Rumlow and Pierce did talk to Shuri, and figured out to come here, they still would only be just arriving. And there’s only one entrance to the museum, so Bucky’s going to see anyone who comes in—

“Hey,” says a voice, and Bucky looks up to see Barton. A wave of relief washes through him as Barton drops heavily into the chair across from him. “Sorry. Ran into some trouble. Things got a little heated.”

“You’re bleeding,” Bucky says, gesturing to his arm.

“Huh? Oh.” Barton looks down at it, seeming more surprised than in pain. “Yeah. He might’ve stabbed me.”

“Who stabbed you?” Bucky gets up, moving to his side of the table.

“Peter Quill.” Barton hisses as Bucky probes at it. “I forgot I stole a thing from him before. He was...not happy to see me again, let’s say. He says he’ll do it, though, if we can show him what we’re working with.”

“What did you steal?”

“Purple gemstone. Real neat looking.” He jerks his arm back. “Ow.”

“This looks deep,” Bucky says. “I think we should take you to a doctor.”

He shakes his head. “I can suture it myself, if we can get supplies.”

“You’re not—no, I’ll do it.” Bucky drops some money on the table, pinning it under a plate. He tugs Barton to his feet. “Come on.”

“You know how to do sutures?”

“I do, actually.” Bucky leads him to the hotel he’d found, and settles him on the bed. He eyes the rag Barton has tied around his arm and shakes his head. “Stay here, I’ll see about finding a drugstore.” He turns to go.

“You don’t have to,” Barton says quietly, reaching out and catching his wrist. “You don’t—it was a stupid mistake on my part, I can take care of it myself.”

It’s like electricity, the touch around his wrist. Bucky only just barely stops himself from gasping, eyes locked on the way Barton’s fingers are laid against his skin, warm and calloused. He has a sudden image of their fingers threading together, pressing Barton back into a pillow, kissing that mischievous smirk off his face—

“I’ll be right back,” he manages after a moment, and pulls out of Barton’s grasp, darting for the door. 

He walks some time, lost in his own thoughts, trying to make sense of what’s happening.

_You like him_ , a little part of his mind murmurs. _That’s what’s happening._

“I do,” he agrees, almost absently.

_And he likes you._

“I think so.”

_So what are you waiting for?_

“I have no idea.”

He finds a drugstore and buys a suture kit, along with some brandy, and makes himself go directly back to the hotel. There’s a little part of him that wants to just keep walking, that’s scared of how attracted he is to Barton, but also he would be a really awful human being if he just let the guy sit alone and bleed in a hotel room.

So he goes back, pushing open the door and offering a quiet, “It’s me,” as he walks in. Barton’s in the same place Bucky left him, sitting on the bed. He perks up as Bucky comes in, something like relief on his face, like he really thought Bucky would leave him.

“Took you a long time,” is all he says.

Bucky shrugs. “Had to find the right supplies.” _Had to get my head on straight._

He disinfects, then sews up Barton’s arm with quick, neat movements. It’s been a long time since he’s had to do sutures, but his hands remember what to do. When he’s done, he sits back with a satisfied nod and gestures to the arm. “Should still keep it covered, but otherwise, I think it’s going to be fine.”

“I’ve had worse,” Barton agrees, examining the sutures with a pleased expression. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“I don’t remember. Dad probably taught me. Or maybe it was Boy Scouts.”

“Boy Scouts teach you how to use that whip too?”

Bucky laughs. “No. I met a lion in a train car.”

“What?”

“I was chasing the Cross of Coronado.” He goes to the bathroom and washes his hands, then comes back. “I was on a Scout trip, and ran into a group of thieves. I managed to steal the Cross from them; we all ended up on a train fighting each other. In one of the cars there was a lion. He tried to maul me, I got the whip.” He touches the scar on his lip. “Cut myself, but managed to get out of there. Realized later that the whip could be useful for all kinds of things. So I bought one, and the rest is history.”

Barton looks amused. “How old were you?”

“Mmm...thirteen, I think.”

“Wow.” Barton grins. “And I thought I had an interesting childhood.”

“You said you were raised in a circus,” Bucky says. “How was that not interesting?”

“Oh, it was. But I never fought a lion in a train car. That’s a new one.”

Bucky laughs. “Well, I’ve never been stabbed by a former work acquaintance, so you have me beat there.”

Barton’s eyes are sparkling. “Ever robbed a museum before?”

“No.” Bucky scowls. “You sure we don’t have any other options?”

Barton shakes his head. “Not that I can think of. We get the scepter, we take it to Quill. He makes a replica, we stick that one back in the museum, and then _boom_ , we’re home free.” He frowns. “Or something like that.”

“How are we going to get it back in the museum?”

“Haven’t thought that far ahead.”

“We probably should wait—”

Barton shakes his head. “Chaos god, remember? Something’s gonna go wrong. I think we’re tempting fate by planning this much already.” Bucky starts to protest, and he holds up a hand. “We can call in an anonymous tip or something, alright? We’ll figure it out. That’s the easy part. First we have to get the damn thing out.”

Bucky rubs a hand over his face. He’s not entirely sure how his life has led him to this point, but he’s really questioning some of his choices. “Alright. Robbing a museum. How do we do it?”

“First we have to scout it,” Barton says. “We need to go back, probably in disguise so we don’t raise any suspicions. Easy enough. I already figured out the guard patrol routine and their path, but I’d like to confirm it, and then I really just need to know where the staff is. If it’s in processing or whatever. And how to handle it. Any special instructions or anything.”

“Absolutely not,” Bucky says, horrified. “I’ll handle the staff.”

“You’re not coming.” Barton shakes his head. “I just need help casing the place. I’ll do the actual thieving—”

“I’m the archeologist—”

“I’ve handled precious items before, Dr. Barnes—”

“It’s probably fragile—”

“I’m just trying to keep your name out of it!” Barton says, a note of exasperation entering his voice. “Shit always goes wrong around me, you’ve seen that. If I get busted, it’s better that it’s just me, and not Dr. James Buchanan Barnes.”

Bucky stares at him. “Where did you hear—”

“One of the interns was raving about you, guy wouldn’t shut up.” He gets up, pacing the length of the room. “Point being, I’m trying not to ruin your career.”

Bucky stands up too. “I appreciate that,” he says, “but I can handle myself. I’m okay. If there’s two of us, we can solve the problem together. At the very least, I’ll have more luck talking my way out of trouble, if something comes up.”

Barton clenches his jaw, a stubborn look settling over his face. “I don’t—”

“I’m coming,” Bucky says, a hard edge in his voice. He doesn’t want to argue. They need to do this and get out of here. The longer they stick around, the more likely it is they’ll run into Rumlow and his crew. “Deal with it.”

Barton holds his gaze. “Okay,” he says after a moment, backing down. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’m very sure.” Bucky crosses his arms. “So. I reiterate. How do we rob a museum?”

“Very carefully,” Barton says, and he lays out a plan.

First, they venture out to find them both a change of clothes, and then they make their way back into the museum. Barton casually directs them down to the Egyptian side of things. “You look here first,” he murmurs. “If it’s here, that’ll complicate things. Keep an eye on the guards. Don’t look suspicious. Wander. I’m going to go check something out.”

Bucky nods. “If it’s here?”

“Then we figure out any direct security measures and we come back tonight when they’re closed.”

“And if it’s downstairs?”

“Then we try and get downstairs.”

“How?”

Barton shrugs. “I’ll steal some keys.”

Bucky closes his mouth against his first response to that, then nods. This is what they need to do. And the staff will be safe with him, so it’ll be okay. Maybe he’ll ask the college to send an anonymous donation here or something. As an apology.

He makes a round of the floor, but he doesn’t see the scepter. “Not here,” he says when they get back together. “I’m not surprised.”

Barton points at another long, thin piece of wood. “That’s not it?”

“No, that’s...” Bucky moves a little closer. “A Sekhem scepter. Similar, but not quite the same. See how the top’s different?” He taps the placard. “More information here, if you’re interested.”

Barton shakes his head. “No. Okay, so it’s downstairs.” He nods to the exit, and Bucky follows him into the next exhibit. “Processing is in the basement, right?” 

“That would make sense.”

“I saw stairs in the back exhibit, the first time. And there’s always a guard roaming around over there. There’s been two rotations since we got here, and someone is _always_ within fifty feet of that door. Bet you anything that’s where the good stuff happens.”

“So what’s the plan?”

Barton looks around. “Okay. Sit tight here for a moment.”

“What?”

“I’ll be right back,” Barton says. “Look at stuff. Don’t attract attention.” He disappears into the crowd, leaving Bucky to stare after him, worry and annoyance warring in him in equal measure. Another security guard passes by, and Bucky quickly wanders over to a display in the front, some stone tablet he can immediately tell isn’t real. He pretends to read it anyway before moving onto the next one, trying to toe the line between being suspicious and being intrigued.

Maybe twenty minutes after that, Barton comes back, his face flushed red. “This way,” he says, and Bucky follows him into the museum again. They step over a red velvet rope, and Barton looks around, then pulls Bucky into a small side room.

It’s some kind of break room—there’s cabinets, and lockers, and a small table in the middle of the room. There’s also two bodies on the floor, and Barton kneels down, undoing the buttons on one of their shirts. “Other one’s yours.” He nods at it. “Work quick, I’m not sure how long they’ll be unconscious.”

Bucky stares at the limp bodies. “Are they _dead?_ ”

Barton shakes his head. “I just said they were unconscious. I don’t kill people.” He looks up, meets Bucky’s eyes. “I promise. I’m not—that’s one reason Rumlow and I broke it off. I don’t leave a trail of bodies behind me.” He gestures at the guards. “No, I found supplies. I mixed up some things to knock them out. But I don’t know how long it’ll last, which is why we need to keep moving.” He strips the guard’s shirt off. “Hurry up, please?”

It’s hard to strip unconscious people—Bucky’s done it before, and he hates it—but he manages, pulling off the shirt, shoes, and pants before sliding them on his own body. He laces up the shoes and straightens up, holding out his arms. “How do I look?”

“Damn good,” Barton says, adjusting his own hat. “Alright, let’s tie them up.” He produces rope out of literally _nowhere_ , and Bucky just decides not to ask. They tie the guards back to back. When they’re done, Barton grins and holds up a ring of keys. “Guess we’re lucky for once. Ready?”

Bucky eyes them. “Is that all the good luck we get for this heist?”

“Probably,” Barton admits, and opens the door. As soon as they’re both out, he closes the door and locks it.

“I feel bad about it,” Bucky says. “Leaving them there.”

“They’ll be fine. If no one’s found them by the time we leave, we can drop a tip with the front desk staff or something. No big deal.” He leads them up to the main lobby again. “Try to look important. Or at least like you belong here.”

Bucky straightens his shoulders, trying to make himself taller. “Right. Blend in.”

“Stop looking terrified.”

“I’m not terrified.”

“Then quit looking it. You’re _bored_. It’s a long shift. You don’t want to be here. You want to go home to your camels and your children and your dutiful wife.” Bucky snorts, and Barton grins at him. “That’s better.”

“You’re insane,” Bucky tells him.

“Yeah, but I’m _so_ much fun.”

They make it to the door without any incidents, and Barton easily finds the key that unlocks it. “Here we go,” he says, pulling it open.

There’s a long set of stairs leading down. Barton tucks the keys in his pockets and walks down casually, like he belongs there. Bucky trails after him, trying to match his confident gait. He’s had to bluff his way into places before, but Barton does it with an almost astonishing ease.

An _attractive_ ease, if Bucky’s being honest with himself.

He shakes off the thought as they reach the bottom. The stairs open up into a hallway, wide enough for them to walk side-by-side. Bucky examines the doors as they go by, reading the words on them. “Offices,” he says.

“How do you know?”

He points. “They’ve got names on them.”

“Oh.” The hallway ends in a T, and Barton pauses, looking both ways. “Uh...left?”

“Worth a try, I suppose.”

Their luck holds out. Left leads them down another hallway and to a room at the end of it. It’s locked too, but there’s a window, and through it, Bucky can see tables with various items on them. “Got it,” he says, trying the handle. “Door’s locked. And lights are off.”

“No one home,” Barton nods. “Can you pick it?”

“The door? Sure.” He kneels down, pulling out his lock picks. He’d made sure to keep them through both clothing changes, just in case, and now he’s glad he did. “Easy.”

Barton pushes the door open. “Alright,” he says. “What does it look like, exactly?”

“Like the scepter you pointed out upstairs.” Bucky moves past him, checking one of the tables. It’ll just be a straight piece of wood, though, no top to it.” He starts looking around, reading labels. “I’m not sure how they separate, if it’s by when items came in, or by what they are.” He points to the table Barton’s standing by. “Read those labels, will you?”

“They’re in Arabic,” Barton says. “I can’t read Arabic.”

“Really?” Bucky looks at his labels. “That’s odd. These are in English. You think it’d be standardized.”

“You’d think, yeah.” He’s looking around, eyes darting from side to side. “I’ll check the back.”

He disappears into the back of the room. Bucky keeps making his rounds, slowly reading labels. There’s a lot of artifacts here—most of them useless, some of them interesting—but none of them are what he’s looking for. He skims the labels, muttering to himself, moving until he’s circled around back to where Barton started.

“Don’t see it,” he calls, looking down at the items in front of him. “Any luck on your end?”

“Maybe,” comes the response.

Bucky skims the labels—he doesn’t see any Arabic ones, he’s not sure which ones Barton was referencing—before turning to the back of the room. “Where?”

“Over here,” he says, and Bucky follows his voice around a couple tall shelves. Barton’s standing at the far end, looking at a shelf several feet above his head. “I think that’s it, maybe? Only long piece of wood I can see.”

Bucky goes up on his tiptoes, reading the label. “It is,” he says, a trickle of excitement running through him. “That’s it. We found it.” He looks around. “Drag that stepladder over, will you?”

Barton grabs the ladder and pulls it closer. “This is going surprisingly well,” he says, steadying it as Bucky climbs on. “I was kind of expecting—”

The words have barely left his mouth before the door they came through opens, and a voice cuts through the air, speaking in Arabic. “ _Hello? Is someone in here?”_

“Shit,” Barton mutters. “Get it. We gotta move.”

“I’m going.” Bucky picks it up carefully. It’s wrapped in a protective sheath, but he still handles it like it’s made of glass.

As soon as he’s back on the floor, a woman in white rounds the corner. She looks surprised, staring at the two of them. “ _Who are you? What are you doing here?”_

For all his bravado about being able to talk his way out of things, Bucky’s mind blanks as soon as he sees her. “Uh...” he starts, looking at Barton, who looks just as wide-eyed as he is. “Maintenance?”

“We’re...” Barton starts, then grimaces. “Shit.”

The woman narrows her eyes, then darts over to the wall. Her slim hand closes on a red lever, grabbing it and pulling it down. As soon as she does, a piercing alarm splits the air. It’s loud, and awful, and Bucky slams his hands over his ears. “What the—”

“Alarm system, we gotta move!” Barton yells, practically dragging him off the ladder. “Let’s go!”

Bucky grips the staff in both hands and follows Barton out the door on the other side of the room, which leads them down another hallway. Barton barely hesitates at the T junction on this side, turning to the right this time.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Bucky asks, shouting over the alarm that’s still ringing.

“Nope!” Barton yells cheerfully, and keeps going.

“Do you know how to get out of here?”

“Nope!”

“Figures,” Bucky mutters, and keeps chasing after him. There’s nothing else he can do.

They turn a couple more corners, getting increasingly lost in the basement. Finally, Bucky skids to a halt, catching himself on a corner. “Barton, wait—”

“We can’t stop here,” Barton hisses, turning around and coming after him. “Dr. Barnes, we gotta keep moving—”

“This basement is too big, we’re going in circles,” Bucky says, gesturing at a door. “This guy’s office—we’ve passed it before. We need to figure out how to get back to the stairs.”

Barton nods, looking around. “Did any of these say stairs?”

“Not that I’ve seen.” Bucky looks at the nearest doors, labeled with various names and degrees after them. “They’re just offices, mostly. Check down that way.”

Barton shakes his head. “I think we’ll have better luck going back the way we came, you know? We know there’s stairs there.”

“That can’t be the only way out,” Bucky says. “There’s got to be others, we’re just missing it—”

Voices split the air behind them, cutting off the rest of his words. He turns, looking down the hallway, then back to Barton.

“This way,” Barton says, and Bucky follows him around the corner. “There’s an open office here, I saw the door was open—” He grabs Bucky’s arm with one hand and opens the door with the other, tugging them both inside before closing it.

“This...is not an office,” Bucky says as the darkness engulfs them. “This is a supply closet. A tiny one.” Tiny is an understatement. There’s not nearly enough room for two grown men in here. They’re pressed almost chest to chest, uncomfortably close.

“Funnily enough, I’ve noticed that.” Barton shifts his weight, stepping on Bucky’s foot. “Sorry.”

Bucky grimaces. “It’s fine.” He listens, but doesn’t hear anything. “How long do we have to stay in here, you think?”

“No idea.”

It’s dark as hell. There’s a thin line of light creeping under the door, but that’s all the illumination they get. It’s just enough to barely see Barton’s shape directly in front of him, only inches away.

They listen in silence as footsteps go past, and people yell instructions in Arabic to each other. Bucky listens tensely, but no one orders any doors to be opened—an oversight on their part, really—and after a while, the footsteps fade away, as do the shouting voices.

“We should stay here a little bit,” Bucky says, moving a little closer to the door. “Give them some time to settle down.”

“Yeah,” Barton agrees, sounding distracted. He’s fidgeting, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

“You alright?”

“I’m fine.”

They’re very close together, Bucky realizes. Closer than they’ve been ever before, even closer than when he was suturing Barton’s arm, and Bucky’s breath catches a little. He can only barely make out Barton’s features, can’t see any of his expression, but he wonders if it’s like his own, if Barton can feel it too—

“Might be in here a long time,” Barton says softly.

“Mmhmm.” Bucky can hear his heartbeat thundering in his ears. “Want to play my-childhood-was-crazier-than-yours again?”

“We could,” Barton says, “but I was actually thinking of a different way to pass the time.”

So, so close to him. “Yeah? Like what?”

“This,” Barton whispers, and kisses him.

It’s not the fireworks Bucky was expecting, in all honesty, and there’s a tiny part of him that’s almost disappointed. But Barton is warm and solid under his hands, and his mouth is soft, and the kiss is its own kind of perfect. Bucky finds himself pulling Barton closer, one arm winding around him, a hand moving into his hair—

He doesn’t hear the footsteps, or the shouting voices, or anything else, really. The first moment he becomes aware that something’s wrong is when the door is kicked open. He winces as the light hits them, disoriented long enough for multiple pairs of hands to drag them apart. Someone pulls the scepter from his hand, and he grunts in dismay at their rough handling of it. 

“Hey!” Barton snaps, struggling in their grip. “Way to ruin the damn moment, assholes—”

Someone snaps at him, furious Arabic words splitting the air. They’re both marched—shoved, really—down multiple different hallways and up a set of stairs, coming out into the opposite side of the museum from where they went down. There’s no people around anymore, the museum completely empty, but Bucky barely has a moment to comprehend the change as they’re marched into a large, fancy office.

They’re forcibly settled into chairs on one side of the desk, the other side empty. They’re not quite held at gunpoint, but there’s enough twitchy hands in the room that Bucky doesn’t even try to get up. He awkwardly adjusts his shirt, then glances at Barton. “So—”

“No talking,” snaps a guard.

Barton raises an eyebrow. “What are you gonna do, shoot us?”

“Don’t antagonize them,” Bucky mutters. He’s been in trouble before, but this is a new low for him. Barton was right. He should’ve stayed behind.

_But then you wouldn’t have kissed him,_ he thinks, and shakes his head. No. It was worth it.

“No talking,” the guard says again, raising his gun threateningly, and they both fall silent.

They wait for a _long_ time, or maybe it just feels long. Bucky’s sense of time is off, lost in the shuffle of heart-pounding adrenaline and dark closets and kissing. Next to him, Barton’s fidgeting in his chair, drumming his fingers and looking around, half-bored, half-interested. His hair is messy, and his lips are red and a little swollen, and Bucky just wants to kiss him again—

The door opens behind them, and a tall, balding man walks in. “Good afternoon,” he says in lightly accented English. He sits across from them on the other side of the large empty desk, leaning forward. His demeanor is friendly, but his eyes are calculating, and Bucky feels a trickle of worry slip through him. “I am Dr. Hassan, director of this museum. I would say it’s a pleasure, but...”

“We don’t want to be here either,” Barton says, leaning back in his chair. “How about we all part ways, and call it a day?”

Hassan smiles. It’s not friendly. “I’d like to agree to that, but unfortunately, you’ve been caught stealing from my museum.”

“Are we under arrest?”

“At the moment, this is just a discussion,” Hassan says. “We’re just talking.” He gestures at one of the guards, who brings the scepter forward, gently laying it on the desk. “Tell me, gentlemen. What’s your interest in this?”

“Decoration,” Barton says easily. “I was trying to spruce up my new apartment.”

Hassan doesn’t look amused. “Is that so?”

“Yeah. I’m a decorative guy, it’s possible.” That gets an eyebrow raise. “What, you don’t believe me? ”

“Decidedly not, Mr. Barton.”

Barton’s head snaps up. “What?”

“And Dr. Barnes,” Hassan says, leaning back in his chair. “I’m surprised at you, you know. A man of your station and caliber surely knows better than to fraternize with the likes of this one.” His mouth twists on the word _fraternize_ , and Bucky suddenly remembers that they were caught kissing, which probably doesn’t help their case at all.

“How do you know our names?” he asks, a sinking feeling in his chest.

“We received an interesting phone call a few hours ago,” Hassan says. “From a man named Brock Rumlow. He warned us that someone might try and steal the _Was-_ scepter. At first I was skeptical, but now I see that he was correct.” He lays a hand on the scepter, still wrapped in its protective coverings. “So tell me, Mr. Barton. What do a thief and a renowned archeologist want with a broken _Was_ -scepter, and why are the Nazis trying so hard to take it from you?”

“It’s a long story,” Barton says, a tired laugh escaping him. He looks resigned now, and weary, casting a glance in Bucky’s direction.

“Well,” Hassan says, a cold smile stealing over his face. “I’d like to hear it. We’ve got plenty of time, after all. Your friends won’t be here to pick you up for several hours.” He crosses his arms over his chest and nods. “So. Let us talk, then.”

“You wanna talk?” Barton asks, a sudden grin slipping over his face. He leans back in his chair, mimicking Hassan’s position. “Alright then. Let’s talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta’ed by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	8. Chapter Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t like when things are easy,” Clint admits. “Unnerves me.” Then, “Hold on. This might get rough.”
> 
> “Oh great,” Bucky mutters, and braces himself. “Ready.”

After an hour, Bucky makes a mental note to never, ever use the phrase “let’s talk” with Barton. Because apparently, “let’s talk” is an open invitation for Barton to share _anything_. Bucky’s almost in awe of the way he can talk forever about absolutely _nothing_ without ever missing a beat. By the time an hour passes, Bucky’s learned way more about the circus than he ever really wanted to know, and Hassan is looking more and more furious by the second. Barton doesn’t let him get a word in edgewise, carefully steering the conversation around his interruptions like he’s sailing a ship around rocks. It’s a work of art, really.

“Mr. Barton,” Hassan finally says loudly, cutting off Barton’s story about a swarm of bees that got into the acrobatics tent. “Not that your childhood isn’t fascinating to hear about—”

“Oh, Mr. Hassan, I haven’t even gotten to the good parts—”

“Doctor,” Hassan snaps. “It’s Dr. Hassan. And I don’t care about your circus days, Mr. Barton, I want to know why you and Mr. Rumlow are both after this scepter—”

Barton waves a hand. “I want it because he wants it, and he wants it because I want it. We go in circles like this all the time. I’m sorry you had to get stuck in it; I told you there was no point to it.”

“But—”

“You know, this one time we were both looking for this statue in Peru—”

Hassan slams his hand on the desk. “I’ve had enough of this,” he snaps, and gets up. “You can wait here until they come to collect you. I have better things to spend my time on.” He claps at the guards and picks the staff up. “Take them to the detention room. They can wait there.”

He leaves, then. Bucky stares after him for a moment, then looks over at Barton. “That was impressive,” he says.

“Nah,” Barton says, grinning at him. “I’m usually much better at that. I’ve gotten people to leave conversations with me after five minutes. He was a tough audience.” He turns to the guards. “What does a museum need with a detention room?”

Bucky’s curious as well, but the guards just grab them, pulling them upright and dragging them down the hallway, ignoring Barton’s protesting. “Easy, fellas, alright, no need to drag us—” He looks sideways at Bucky, a hint of a smile on his face. “Plan B, then?”

“What’s Plan B?”

He finds out about fifty feet later when Barton makes his move. It’s almost comical, the way he does it. He trips over nothing, dramatically collapsing to the floor and letting out a loud howl. The guard, surprised, lets go of his arm. As soon as he’s on the floor, Barton kicks upward, hitting him in the shin and making him drop as well. “Move!” he yells, and Bucky immediately twists away from his own stunned guard, grabbing the gun in the process. There’s a flurry of movement on the floor, and then Barton’s popping up next to him, his own gun in hand, and they’re backing down the hallway.

“Plan B?” Bucky asks dryly.

“It was less of a plan,” Barton admits, breathing heavily, “and more of a chaotic impulse, but it worked, didn’t it?” He motions to the guards on the floor. “Get up. Come on.”

They get up, hands raised and expressions furious. Barton directs them back into the office they came out of, and locks the door from the outside, breaking the key off in the lock.

“That won’t hold them long,” Bucky says. “They can open it—”

“It’ll be enough.” Barton points down the hallway. “We need to get the staff and get outta here.”

“Where is the staff?”

“Angry guy took it with him. I don’t know.”

“He probably took it back to the processing room.” Bucky shakes his head. “We’re not going to have any luck getting it, there’s no way they didn’t improve security—”

“I bet they didn’t,” Barton says. “You heard that guy, he was arrogant as hell. He didn’t think anyone would break in at all.”

“Because no one else is as dumb as we are.”

“Well, yes. But also, it hasn’t been that long. I bet you anything it’s not more than a couple extra guards. Maybe in the next few weeks they’ll improve it, but for now, no way.” He tugs Bucky’s arm. “We gotta have it, man.”

“We don’t,” Bucky says. “This was stupid, coming here. Why don’t we just take the head and go? That’s easier to transport, and if Rumlow’s right they need both halves—”

“I’m going,” Barton says, a stubborn twist to his mouth, and he darts down the hallway in the opposite direction. After a moment’s hesitation, Bucky chases after him, cursing quietly to himself as they find the stairs and go back down again.

Surprisingly, though, Barton ends up being right. There’s only one extra guard in the hallway, and Barton knocks him unconscious before Bucky can even make a move to help. “Did you learn how to fight in the circus?”

Barton laughs. “No. Well, yeah. Fistfights and stuff, but this? No, Natasha taught me this. She learned hand-to-hand from some guy in Russia, and she’s deadly as hell with it. It’s excellent. I’m not half as good, but I’ve learned some things.” He shoves the keys in the door and pushes it open. “Okay. Attempt number two.”

They take the staff and Bucky leads the way back up, moving as carefully as he can. He eases the door open, then beckons Barton out. “This seem too easy to you?”

“A bit, yeah,” Barton says, sounding a little concerned. “I mean—where’re the people?”

“They cleared the museum when we set off the alarm.”

“Right, but they caught us and that was at least two hours ago, so why—”

“Hello, boys,” says a familiar voice, and both of them spin around to see Rumlow on the opposite side of the exhibit. There’s a smug smile on his face, and he’s dressed in an immaculate suit, complete with a flower in the lapel. “I see you’ve gone and done my work for me yet again, Barton.”

Bucky expects a quick retort from Barton, but nothing comes. Instead, Barton grabs his wrist and yanks him into the next room, running through the exhibits. “Follow me,” he says, and Bucky does—not that he has any other choice, really.

They end back where they knocked out the first two guards. Bucky has a sense of deja-vu as they go in and lock the door, dragging over a couple metal lockers against it for good measure. “Did we just back ourselves into a corner?”

“Window,” Barton says shortly, dragging a chair over. He climbs up on it and starts tugging at the latch. “Help me.”

Someone thuds against the door from the other side. “Come on, Barton. I expect better from you.”

“Really shouldn’t,” Barton mutters, shoving the window open. “Never mind, I got it.”

Bucky eyes the window, which is...small, to put it politely. Bucky’s not an enormous guy, but he’s broad-shouldered, and nothing like Barton’s small frame. “Barton, there’s no way I’m fitting through there.”

“You’ll fit,” he says stubbornly. “You have to fit.”

“You’re smaller than I am—”

He’s interrupted by someone slamming themselves against the door. “Look,” Barton says, voice tight. “It’s either go this way or don’t get out at all.”

Bucky starts to respond, but a small clicking noise grabs both their attention. The lock, popping open. The door follows it a moment later, slamming into the metal lockers.

_Damn chaos god_ , Bucky thinks, and immediately shoves himself against the door, helping to brace it shut. The lockers are heavy, but not enough to keep them out forever. “You have to go.”

“I’m not leaving you,” Barton snaps, jumping off the chair. “There’s gotta be another way.”

The door is shoved open slightly, more force from the other side making it hard to keep shut. Bucky grimaces and holds the staff out. “Better me than you.”

“That’s a shit answer.” Barton shakes his head. “Come on, use that big brain of yours—”

“I _am_ using it,” Bucky says, shoving harder against the door as he holds out the scepter. “Take this. Get it out of here. Follow your plan. Then just...come get me.” He tries for a smile. “Or I’ll escape, either one. I’m good at this stuff too, you know. Not my first rodeo.”

“I—” Barton clenches his fist, a thousand emotions roiling across his face. 

“Clint,” Bucky says, his voice soft. “Go. Please.”

Barton takes it carefully. Then he swallows hard and kisses Bucky again, a fast, desperate thing that leaves him wanting more. “I’m coming back for you,” he promises as he breaks it off.

“Not if I get out first,” Bucky says.

Barton casts him one last look, furious and worried in equal measures. Then he disappears out the window, climbing out like it’s the easiest thing he’s ever done.

Bucky holds the door as long as he can, trying to give him as long as he can to get away. But it’s only a few minutes before they have enough power on the other side, and the door is shoved open. “Getting desperate, are we?” Rumlow asks as he walks in, flanked by multiple gun-wielding soldiers. Then he frowns, looking around. “Where’s Barton?”

“No idea,” Bucky says, deadpan. “Disappeared into thin air. It was like magic,”

Rumlow’s eyes go to the window, and he scowls. “Check outside,” he orders to a few people behind him, and then turns back to Bucky. “I’m guessing he has the staff?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Dr. Barnes—” He stops, shaking his head. “Never mind. I can see he’s already gotten to you.”

“He’s a bad influence,” Bucky agrees. “But a good man, which is more than I can say for you.”

Rumlow rolls his eyes. “Bring him,” he says, and Bucky lets himself be pulled from the room. They march him all the way down and out of the museum, into a waiting limousine. Fancy, if not slightly terrifying. Bucky climbs in the back of it, where he’s greeted by Pierce sitting opposite him.

“Dr. Barnes,” Pierce says, and there’s no faux-friendliness to his demeanor now. “And where is Mr. Barton?”

“We’re looking for him,” Rumlow says, getting in after him. “He’s got the staff.”

“Of course he does.” Pierce sighs. “Did you search out his contacts in the city?”

“We’re working on it.”

Bucky’s fingers curl into fists. “You won’t find him,” he says.

“We might,” Rumlow says, flashing a nasty smile. “He’s cursed, remember? We probably won’t even have to try.”

“You won’t,” Bucky says, maybe a little less confidently than before.

_Barton’s smart_ , he reminds himself. _Smart, and capable, and he’s good at what he does, curse or not. He’s been doing this for a long time. He’ll be okay. You just worry about yourself._

He looks out the windows, but they’re blackened with something and he doesn’t have a good view. “Where are we going?”

“Headquarters,” Rumlow says.

“Which is where?”

“It’s in the city.” Pierce’s tone is sharp, very much _that’s all you need to know_ , and Bucky decides to stop asking questions. He’s not going to get anywhere from this car, in any case. Might as well sit back and relax for a moment. God knows he’s exhausted.

Headquarters turns out to be another large mansion. There’s no offer of food this time, no pretense of friendliness or job offers. He’s brought in at gunpoint and shoved into a room, the door locked behind him. “Enjoy your stay,” are the only words he gets.

Bucky searches the whole room, but doesn’t find anything other than a change of clothes in the closet. They’re not his fieldwork clothes, but it’s better than the stiff, stolen guard uniform. He pulls them on—a soft linen shirt and pants, then makes another round of the room. The windows are locked from the outside with some kind of deadbolt, so there’s no getting out that way. The only other doors are to the closet and the overly large bathroom.

The first time the door to the hallway opens, he takes off, darting past the two guards there and running. It’s not his best move, but he catches them by surprise, and nearly makes it to the front door before they haul him back, shoving him back in his room. Bucky puts up a good fight, but they’re broader and stronger than he is, and his best just doesn’t quite cut it.

They toss in a tray of food an hour or so later, and he makes himself eat before collapsing face first on the bed and sleeping for several hours.

He tries to get out several times over the next few days—he wasn’t lying, when he told Barton this isn’t the first time he’s been held against his will. But they’re much better at keeping people than anyone he’s encountered before, and he’s never quite able to make it out. On the fifth try, he makes a mental note to ask Barton if curses are transferable by kissing. He never used to be this bad at escaping things.

Instead of taking him back to his room this time, they drag him into a large sitting room, pushing him into an oversized armchair. Bucky’s wondering if he should consider this a win or not—he didn’t get away, but at least he’s outside the damn room—when a door opens, and Rumlow and Pierce walk into the room. They sit across from him with annoyed expressions.

“Gentlemen,” Bucky says, nodding at them. “I’d say it’s a pleasure to see you, but...” He shrugs. “It’s really not.”

“You’re making my life difficult,” Pierce says. A guard brings him a scotch, and he takes it with one hand, sipping at it. “I don’t appreciate this, Dr. Barnes.”

“You’re the one who kidnapped me,” Bucky says. “All I wanted to do was dig in the dirt and uncover some history. I didn’t want to get wrapped up in any of this.”

“Barton involved you, Dr. Barnes. Not us.”

Bucky shakes his head. “I’m not interested in the semantics, Pierce. Maybe he did start it, but you’re the ones keeping me here. Just let me go.”

“Not until we have Barton,” Pierce says. “Once we have him and the staff, we can discuss the next step.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Next step?”

Pierce sips his scotch. “We’re not monsters, Dr. Barnes. I want you working where your skills are most applicable, and that’s certainly not locked up in a room here.”

“So why are you keeping me locked in a room here, then?”

Pierce sighs. “Unfortunately, we’ve been having a string of rather sensitive meetings. And I can’t have you wandering around, getting into trouble.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Bucky glances around. “I’m not working for you.”

He holds up a hand. “We’ll discuss it later. For now, we’ll wait.” He turns to Rumlow. “You said you’ve found Barton’s contacts?”

“We’re working on it.” Rumlow smirks. “Some of them I know, and we’ll find the rest from there. I suspect we’ll have him before nightfall.”

“Excellent.” Pierce stands up. “Dr. Barnes, I understand and respect that you are here against your will. However, if you insist on trying to make things difficult, we will have no choice but to reduce your accommodations accordingly. We have a rather important meeting in half an hour, and I can’t have you running about, causing chaos.”

Bucky snorts. “You think that’s going to stop me? I don’t care if you take away my fancy room. I’m an archeologist. Being in uncomfortable places is practically in the job description.”

Pierce stares at him for a moment, then nods and says, “So be it.”

Which is how, twenty minutes later, Bucky finds himself tied to a chair in another, smaller sitting room. And maybe a little of Barton’s rubbed off on him, because he’s slightly proud of the fact that it took four people to put him there.

The guard finishes tying the ropes, then tugs on them in satisfaction. “Like to see you get out of this one,” he growls in Bucky’s ear.

“Watch me,” Bucky mutters, although he’s not entirely sure he can. They did a damn good job tying him down.

“This is only temporary,” Pierce says, surveying the process from the door. “Once this meeting is over, we’ll let you out.”

Bucky makes a skeptical sound, and Pierce shrugs, leaving the room in a grand, sweeping manner. The guard follows a moment later, and then Bucky’s left alone with nothing to do except stare at the wall and wonder how he got himself into all of this.

He’s worried about Barton, too, as much as he’s tried not to think about it. Worried that he’s caught, or hurt, or needs help that Bucky can’t give him.

There’s also a tiny part of him that’s wondering if Barton’s going to come back at all. Two kisses in the heat of the moment, fueled by adrenaline and fear, don’t constitute anything concrete. Promises or not, Barton isn’t obligated to come back for him, and Bucky wouldn’t blame him if he didn’t.

“No,” he says out loud, staring at the ostentatious decorations on the fireplace. “No. He promised.”

He focuses on the ropes, then, trying to manipulate his way out of them. He’s slipped ropes before, but these are particularly tight, and he doesn’t have any of his usual tricks up his sleeve.

He’s been working on them for almost twenty minutes where there’s a commotion outside the door. Bucky stops twisting against the ropes so he can listen better.

“I’m sorry, but I’m not supposed to let anyone in, sir,” the guard says.

A haughty voice answers him. “Do I look like just anyone to you?”

Bucky blinks. _Is that..._

“I apologize sir, but I am under strict orders—”

“I understand that, soldier. I’ll take responsibility for it. But it’s urgent that I speak with the prisoner immediately. I’m on direct business from the _Fuehrer_ himself. Do you really think I’m going to report back to him with anything less than what he asked for?”

There’s a long silence, and then a defeated, “ _Nein_ , Hauptmann Schneider.”

“Good. Open the door.”

The door locks click, and the door swings open. A shorter, blond man steps through, dressed in a heavily decorated, sharp grey uniform, complete with a cap set at a jaunty angle. “ _Danke_ ,” he says to the guard, voice altered with a light German accent. “I appreciate your help. I will be sure to recommend you to your superiors.”

Bucky wills his face to stay neutral as the guard looks right at him, then looks back at the blond man. He still looks unsure, but after a moment, he nods and steps back into the hallway. 

The blond man closes the door, then turns around. “Hey,” he says, sweeping off the hat and offering a brilliant smile. “Glad to see you’re still alive.”

“Clint,” Bucky says, sagging in relief. “What—how are you even here? Where did you get the uniform?”

“Stole it,” Clint says. He flips open a knife and starts sawing at the ropes. “Ran into Hauptmann Schneider on the road on the way here. Stand-up guy, for a Nazi. I almost felt bad about stealing his clothes and leaving him tied up in an alley.”

“You did not.” Bucky turns to see him. “Did you?”

“I did.” Clint frees his hands and sets to work on his feet. “So it’s this trick my brother and I used to pull in our circus days, right? We’d find a mark, and one of us would lift something off him—money clip, or a watch or something. Then we’d return it a few minutes later, make a big deal out of it. Could usually earn a couple extra bucks that way as a reward.” He slices through the ropes and starts on the other side. “So anyway, I did a version of that. Lifted his watch when he wasn’t looking, then gave it back a few minutes later.”

“And what did he say?”

“He was very grateful.” Clint grins up at him, all mischievous, and Bucky’s heart goes a little faster at the sight. “So grateful, in fact, that he offered to give me a lift up the road to my destination.”

“And then you stole his clothes?”

“And then I stole his clothes.” The ropes give on his other leg, and Clint stands up. “And his car. And his name. Also, all of his money. It was an interesting five minutes.”

Bucky gets to his feet. “You came back,” he says, shaking his arms out.

“I promised I would.” Clint looks up at him. “I’m sorry it took so long. I had some trouble with Quill, and things went generally...” He waves a hand. “Chaotic. As they do.” His eyes meet Bucky’s, a little hopeful, a little unsure. “But anyway. I promised. I’m here.”

Bucky kisses him. It’s more impulsive than he usually is, but he’s so damn relieved to see Barton, the worries that he had before slowly melting away. “Hi,” he says softly.

“Hi,” Clint says, a small smile spreading over his face. “Can we get out of here so I can kiss you somewhere decent?”

“Happy to,” Bucky agrees. 

“Great. Here. I’m gonna tie your hands, then you and I are going to walk right past this guy out front.”

“What?”

“It’ll be fine. You’ve got the easy job, right? You just need to look scared. I’m the one who gets to do all the blustering.” He grabs some rope from the chair. “Hands. I’ll do it so you can slip it, it’s easy, all you have to do—”

“I’ve gotten out of ropes before, Clint.”

Clint shrugs and starts tying his hands. “You’re going to have to tell me about all that someday.”

“About what?”

“You, and the apparently crazy life you lived before meeting me.”

“Not much to tell, really.”

That gets him a skeptical laugh. “Right. I’m sure all archeology professors know how to pick locks, and steal cars, and slip ropes. Did you learn about that between skeleton hunts?”

“I don’t hunt skeletons,” Bucky says, trying not to laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”

“You fought a lion in a train car.”

“That wasn’t—”

“And you told me on the way here you got chased by pirates—”

“I—”

“Point being,” Clint says—and Bucky starts wondering when he became _Clint_ and not _Barton_ — “I want to know more. I want to know all of it. Let’s get out here, go for that drink.”

“We already got that drink,” Bucky says.

“Another one, then. Maybe two. Find a cheap little bar and down shots of whiskey until neither of us can see straight anymore. Sound good?”

“That sounds perfect,” Bucky says, and Clint beams at him. “Let’s get out of here, then.”

Clint straightens up. “Okay.” The German accent is back in his voice, and there’s a blank mask settled over his features. It’s the barest change, but suddenly, he doesn’t look like Clint Barton at all anymore. He looks like whoever he’s impersonating, like a haughty, stuck-up Nazi. It’s as impressive as it is chilling, and Bucky feels himself duck down a little in response to it.

“Come with me,” Clint commands, and Bucky follows him.

They’re moving so quickly and confidently that they’re halfway down the hall before the guard even thinks to call after them. “Wait!”

Clint sighs, like this is the biggest inconvenience anyone’s ever had to deal with, and turns around. “ _Can I help you?_ ” he asks in flawless German. “ _I told you, I’m a busy man. I don’t have time to be discussing things. I’m taking the prisoner, and I’m leaving.”_

_“But sir—”_

“Not _now_ ,” Clint snaps, switching to English, and the guard steps back, eyes wide. “If you have a question, you can take it up with Pierce. I’m sure he’d be happy to hear from you.” He says it with a sneer, like the thought of Pierce talking to a common guard is ridiculous.

“No sir,” the guard says after a moment, and Clint turns on his heel, pushing Bucky in front of him.

“Walk,” he commands, and Bucky walks.

“Is it really just that easy?” he mutters as they go into the main room, turning down a smaller hallway. There’s no one else around, the house almost suspiciously empty. Then Bucky remembers what Pierce had said, about an important meeting, and chalks it up to that.

“Might be, this time,” Clint says, shrugging. “There’s a car out back. We’re gonna steal it.”

“Fine by me.” They walk out the back door, onto a nice patio, and into a small courtyard. The sun feels fantastic on his face, warming him, and Bucky tips his face up to it. “Feels good.”

“Yeah,” Clint agrees, looking around. “This way. The door.”

Bucky glances around, seeing a door set into the far back wall. “Where’s that go?”

“The street. That’s where the car is.”

“Who’s car?”

“Mine. Well. Schneider’s, really.” Clint straightens his hat. “I’m sorry it took so long for me to get here, by the way. I’ll tell you the whole story when we’re out, but basically—”

“Stop!”

They both stop and turn. Behind them, another guard is standing in the doorway to the house, one hand on his gun. As soon as he looks at Clint, his face twists. “You’re not—”

“Oh hell,” Clint says, and pulls out his own gun. He shoots the glass door, shattering it, and the guy jumps backwards, out of the way. “Move it!”

Bucky moves it. They sprint to the door, and Bucky grabs it, dragging it open as Clint shoots at the guy, laying down covering fire. It’s awkward with his hands bound, but he manages it, darting through and to the street. Clint follows, still shooting. His gun clicks just as he slams the door shut behind them.

There’s another guard in the street. He looks surprised as hell to see Bucky and Clint come out, guns blazing, and in his moment of hesitation, Bucky gets him. He’s not as good at fighting as Clint is, but he can hold his own. He punches the guy into the wall, dropping him to the ground. “Ready?”

Clint’s staring at him, a heated look on his face. “Nice,” is all he says, then gestures to the idling car at the curb. “Get in.”

“Seriously,” Bucky says, getting in. Clint goes to the other side. “This is too easy.”

“I know.” He scowls. “I don’t like it.”

As soon as they start to drive out of the alley, though, they’re greeted by a whole host of people, most of them with guns, all of which are pointed at the car. Standing by them is a very angry looking blond man who looks a hell of a lot like Clint, except he’s swathed in a blanket-looking toga getup, and looks, very, very mad.

“There we go,” Clint says, sounding relieved, even as his fingers tighten on the wheel, foot pressed on the brake. “That’s how it’s supposed to be.”

“What?” Bucky works himself free from the ropes, dropping them onto the floor.

“I don’t like when things are easy,” Clint admits. “Unnerves me.” Then, “Hold on. This might get rough.”

“Oh great,” Bucky mutters, and braces himself. “Ready.”

“ _Get out of the car_!” someone yells.

“Yeah, right,” Clint snorts, and guns the engine.

The car lurches forward with a thunderous growl, blasting through the blockade, sending Nazis scattering everywhere. He lets out a loud whoop of excitement. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

Bucky twists to look in the rear-view mirror. Behind them, the group is scrambling, waving their own cars forward, peeling off to chase after them. Bucky grimaces. “Do you have a plan?”

“Kind of,” Clint says, focusing on the road. He turns a sharp corner, heading into the city proper. The streets start to lose the residential look, turning into more crowded, narrower roads. “We’re gonna get a little ways away, then ditch the car and go on foot.”

“That’s— _watch_ it!”

“I see it,” Barton says, and swerves hard to avoid the oncoming car. “They still behind us?”

“Yes!”

“Dammit.” He slams the brakes and yanks the wheel hard, sending the car careening down another narrow alley. The back-end fishtails, and bounces off the side of a wall. Bucky smacks his head on the window as Clint tries to correct it, making himself dizzy. He’s out of it for a few moments after that, finally forcing his brain back into gear in time to see Clint navigating the car onto a side street.

“You good?” Clint asks, shoving it into park. “We gotta move.” He strips off the uniform jacket, revealing a long-sleeved white shirt underneath it. He shoves into both the jacket and the hat into the backseat with a look of disgust. “Not a lot I can do about the pants, but I think it’ll be fine. We’re not hanging around to shop or anything. Shouldn’t be noticeable.”

“Right.” Bucky shakes off the last bit of disorientation and glances around. “Where are we?”

“Not far. But we’ll do better losing them on foot.” He opens his door and gets out, and Bucky follows suit. There’s some kind of market happening on the next street over, and Clint leads him through easily, ducking and weaving through the crowds with a kind of grace Bucky could never manage.

They wind up in a small apartment, barely more than a bedroom and a kitchen with a tiny table. Clint unlocks the door and pushes it open, gesturing around. “Home sweet home,” he says. “Kind of. This is one of Quill’s places, he’s letting us use it.”

“Didn’t he stab you?”

Clint shrugs. “He got over it. He was real excited about the scepter, by the way. Working on that duplicate right now.”

Bucky lets out a relieved breath. “It’s okay?”

“It’s safe. He’s the best counterfeiter in the business. By the time he’s done, we won’t be able to tell which one’s real and which one’s fake.”

Bucky nods and points at the scorch marks on the wall above the stove. “Does he know you tried to blow up his apartment?”

“I did not,” Clint says, sounding offended. “I tried to destroy the scepter head.” Bucky stares at him, and he holds up his hands. “I know. I know. Sanctity of history and all that. But I figured if the whole duplicate plan didn’t work—which you know is kind of a long shot anyway—then we had a plan B.”

“So how’d you get scorch marks on the ceiling?”

“Fire,” Clint says, and when Bucky raises an eyebrow, he shakes his head. “Trust me, you don’t want to know the rest. Point being, I tried everything. No luck.”

“But it’s made of wood,” Bucky says.

“Yeah, wood and voodoo. Or something.”

“It should’ve _burned_ , at the least.”

“It should’ve. But it didn’t. Couldn’t burn it, couldn’t cut it, couldn’t break it. Indestructible. So...yeah. Plan B’s out for now. He rubs a hand over his face. “Damn, I’m tired.”

“You look like hell,” Bucky says carefully.

“Haven’t been sleeping.” Clint drops his hand. “Chasing you, trying to talk Quill into doing what we wanted, trying to figure out what the next step is.” He quirks an eyebrow at Bucky. “Thought you were gonna try to get out?”

“I _did_ try,” Bucky grumbles. “Are curses transferable by kissing?”

Clint shrugs. “Not sure.” A slight smirk curves his mouth. “Why, were you running into trouble?”

“I tried five times,” Bucky admits. “And—I mean, I’m not Harry Houdini, but I know how to get out of tight spots. But it was like every time I gave it a shot, I just...couldn’t do it. Like things kept going wrong for me.”

Clint laughs outright. “Oh no,” he says. “And to think I actually had a string of decent luck these last few days.”

“So it _is_ transferable?” Bucky says, unable to hide his own laughter. “That’s...irritating.”

Clint tilts his head. “Wanna find out for sure?”

“And how would we do that?”

“Kiss me,” Clint says, and he says it like a challenge, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Unless you’re afraid of a little chaos.”

“I don’t mind a little chaos,” Bucky says, and reaches forward, pulling him closer. “I don’t mind at all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta’ed by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	9. Chapter Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is good, and Bucky’s hungrier than he even realized. They finish it in almost record time, Clint scooping up the last couple grains of rice and eating them with a pleased noise. They end up ordering another round of moonshine after that, and then another, and by the time the bar’s getting ready to close, they’re both drunk as hell.
> 
> Clint grins at him from across the table. “So,” he says, leaning forward. “How do you feel about doing something interesting?”

Bucky half expects the other shoe to drop as they stand there, exploring each other with slow, unhurried kissing. Part of him’s waiting for the Nazis to burst in, or something to spontaneously catch fire, or the building to collapse. Anything that’ll ruin the moment.

But nothing happens, except Clint wraps around him, sighing into his mouth with a pleased little sound. Bucky’s own hands drift down, settling around his waist. “You mentioned going to bed, once,” he says when Clint pulls back for air, lips kiss-swollen and red. “Are you still interested in that?”

“You’re such a professor,” Clint snickers. “Yeah, I’m interested. I’m always interested. I’m extra interested when it’s you.” He kisses Bucky again, turning it into something filthy. “But we need to take care of some things before nightfall.”

“Like?”

“Like seeing Quill, and getting food. And I want to wear pants that aren’t Nazi related.” Clint loops his arms around Bucky’s shoulders. “Let’s check off the list, and then we can come back here and be interesting all night. Sound good?”

“Sounds responsible,” Bucky says. “Which is really more my realm than yours.”

Clint laughs. “I know. But I promised Quill I’d come in to check on things, and I would like to avoid getting stabbed again, if possible. He’s already annoyed with me. And I’d like to eat something, I’m hungry as hell.” He pats Bucky’s ass and steps back. “So all that first. Anticipation makes things better, anyway.”

“I’ve been anticipating,” Bucky says. “Been thinking about you for days.”

Clint pauses, a pleased look crossing his face. “That so?”

“Yeah,” Bucky admits. “I just—you kissed me, twice, and then I got locked up in a room and wasn’t sure if you were coming back—”

“Course I was coming back,” Clint says immediately. “I would’ve gone in guns blazing if the bluff hadn’t worked.”

“Right, but—” Bucky shrugs. “I didn’t know. We haven’t known each other that long.”

“I always keep my promises,” Clint says. “ _Always_.”

It seems an unreasonable promise in and of itself, but there’s a sincerity to his tone that makes Bucky believe him. So he just nods, and kisses Clint one more time, then reluctantly steps back. “Fine. Let’s be responsible, then.”

“It won’t take long,” Clint says. “Just a couple things here and there.” He leans over to the tiny kitchen table and grabs the large paper bag. “I got your clothes, by the way. And your bag. And your whip and stuff.”

Bucky takes the bag gratefully and goes into the bedroom to get dressed, feeling better with every stitch he pulls on. He feels much more like himself with his leather jacket and bag, fedora settled on his head, whip coiled and hooked onto his belt loop. It’s comforting. It’s him.

“Thanks,” he says, when he comes back out. “I appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Clint says. He’s changed as well, the grey pants exchanged for a pair of khaki-colored ones that look a hell of a lot more comfortable. He’s sitting backwards in the chair, arms crossed over the back of it and chin resting on them. There’s an appreciative, hungry look on his face as he studies Bucky. “You know, if my teachers dressed like you, I might’ve actually wanted to go to school.”

Bucky laughs. “Did you not?”

“Go to school? Not long enough to make an impact. Didn’t you hear me telling Dr. Know-it-all about the circus? I went there instead.” He grins, and nudges Bucky with an elbow. “Learned more there, anyway. Besides, if I’d gone to school to be an upstanding citizen, I wouldn’t be here, and that would just be a _tragedy_.”

Bucky laughs again and adjusts his hat. “I’ve got enough school for the both of us,” he says. “And I’m glad you’re here.”

“Good.” Clint gestures to the door. “Let’s go. We’re losing daylight.”

Bucky follows him out. They walk down and out to the street, blending into the crowds. Bucky keeps an eye out for anyone suspicious, but after a while he has to give up. It’s too crowded, and if he keeps looking around, he’s going to lose Clint. He focuses on following instead, and occasionally admiring the way Clint’s ass looks in his pants.

Peter Quill’s office, as Clint calls it, is a ten minute walk from where they’re staying. Bucky raises an eyebrow when they wind up in front of a bar, but Clint shakes his head and waves him around back. “This way,” he says, and leads the way up a set of rickety, narrow stairs. At the top, he knocks on the wooden door three times. “Quill! It’s Barton.”

A moment later, a man opens the door. He’s tall, about Bucky’s height, with curly hair and a lazy, half-irritated look on his face. “Barton,” he says, and looks at Bucky. “This your friend?”

“Dr. Barnes,” Bucky says, offering a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Quill shakes it. “You too,” he says, and jerks his thumb back. “Come on in, then.”

Bucky follows him in. The apartment—if he could call it that—is a _mess_. Items are strewn everywhere, clothes tossed haphazardly on every available surface except the table, which is covered with knives and scraps of papers and other items.

“You do forgeries?” Bucky asks, recognizing the equipment almost immediately.

“Among other things.” Quill motions them to the couch, then disappears into a room in the back, blocked off by a curtain of beaded strings.

Bucky looks at the couch and shakes his head. “I’m not sitting on that.”

“Don’t,” Clint says knowingly. “He has a pet monkey around here somewhere. Likes to hide and scare people.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. His name’s Rocket.”

“Rocket’s with Gamora,” Quill says, coming back into the room. He’s holding a piece of wood in gloved hands. The color’s off, but from what Bucky can tell, it looks pretty damn close to the original. “Girlfriend,” he adds at Bucky’s questioning look. “She’s out doing some shopping. So nothing to worry about. This is what I’ve got so far.”

He holds up the staff, and Barton whistles. “Nice,” he says, reaching for it.

Quill yanks it back. “Not done yet,” he says. “And you owe me the rest of the money.”

Clint scowls. “I already paid you a ridiculous amount.”

“You get charged extra for stealing the gem from me.”

“You stabbed me! If anything, I should get a discount for that. Besides, it was barely worth anything!”

“You sold it for a hundred-thousand pounds!”

“Where’d you hear that?”

“Natalia told me.”

“Traitor,” Clint mutters. “Well, in any case—”

“Pay me,” Quill says, or I’m calling her and telling her you stiffed me again.” He smirks.

Clint scowls again. “You’ll get your money.”

“See that I do.” Quill nods at Bucky. “This look like what you wanted?”

“Color’s off,” Bucky says. “But otherwise...” He motions to the top. “Clint, do you have the—”

“Yeah,” Clint says, and reaches into his pocket, pulling out the scepter head. He holds it against the top of the scepter. “Perfect match.”

“Of course it’s a perfect match.” Quill sounds offended. “That’s what I do.”

“And you’re very good at it,” Bucky says, heading off what’s sure to be a snappy retort from Clint. “When do you think you’ll be done?”

Quill looks at it. “Oh...let’s be generous, call it noon tomorrow.” He points at Clint. “You don’t have my money, I _will_ stab you again.”

“And here I thought we were friends.” Clint gives a mock sigh. “You’ll have the money, Quill. Don’t worry.”

“How much are you paying him?” Bucky asks curiously.

“Not enough,” Quill says, at the same time Clint says, “Too damn much.” They glare at each other, although Bucky can sense the tone underneath it. They’re not really mad, he’s pretty sure, but they’re definitely rivals of some kind. He wonders if it’s just the gem thing or if it was something else.

“We’ll be back at noon,” Bucky says, and grabs Clint’s arm. “Come on.”

“Love how you cleaned up for us,” Clint says as Bucky drags him to the door.

Quill rolls his eyes. “You’re one to talk, bird brain. I lived in a tent with you for two weeks in the jungle. I know what you’re like.” He points at the door. “Get outta here. Come back tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” Bucky says to him, and pushes Clint out the door. As soon as it closes behind them, he ushers Clint down the rickety stairs. “Why did he call you bird brain?”

“My professional name is Hawkeye,” Clint says, jumping the last one and landing on the cobblestones.

“What? Why?”

“That was my circus name. Just kinda stuck.” He glances up at the sky. “It’s getting late. Want to get dinner?”

“I’d love dinner. I haven’t eaten all day.”

“Excellent.” Clint gestures down the street. “Let’s go find something.”

They end up in a little restaurant. Clint directs Bucky to a table, coming back a moment later with two shot glasses. “Moonshine,” he says at Bucky’s questioning look. “This place doesn’t technically sell liquor, but I know the owner.”

“How?”

Clint hands him a glass. “Food’s coming,” is all he says. “Drink up.”

Bucky lets the matter go and takes a hesitant sip. “God,” he mutters, coughing. “That’s strong.”

“Coward,” Clint says with a grin, and throws his back in a single gulp. “I win. You owe me a story.”

Bucky raises an eyebrow and takes a sip again. “A story, huh?”

“One story, any story.” Clint sprawls in the chair across from him. “Or tell me where you learned to slip ropes.”

“I was a prisoner of war,” Bucky says. “1916. Battle of the Somme.”

Clint stares at him. “You were a soldier?”

Bucky nods. “Corporal. We had orders to capture the Chateau La Maisonette.”

“How old were you?”

“Too young,” Bucky says, and takes a longer drink this time. “We got overrun by Germans, and my friend Steve and I were captured. One of the other prisoners—Captain Jean Benet—taught me how. I’ve always been good with ropes, didn’t take me long to pick it up.” Bucky shrugs off the memory. It’s not one he enjoys reliving. He tries not to think about his Army days in general.

“I didn’t fight,” Clint says, apparently picking up on his discomfort. “We moved around too much with the circus, and my brother always kept me out of the way when the Army came calling.”

“The brother in Moscow?”

“Or Pennsylvania, yeah. Barney’s his name. He’s a good guy, all things considered.”

A woman comes up to the table with a large plate of food. Clint slips her some money—where he got it from, Bucky has no idea, it just appears in his hand—and then he shoves the plate at Bucky.

“What is it?”

“Dunno,” Clint says, popping some rice in his mouth. “Good, though. Eat.”

It is good, and Bucky’s hungrier than he even realized. They finish it in almost record time, Clint scooping up the last couple grains of rice and eating them with a pleased noise. They end up ordering another round of moonshine after that, and then another, and by the time the bar’s getting ready to close, they’re both drunk as hell.

Clint grins at him from across the table. “So,” he says, leaning forward. “How do you feel about doing something interesting?”

“More interesting than this?”

“Oh, you know.” Clint winks. He’s been getting more brazen with every drink—not that he was the king of subtlety before, but he’s completely abandoned any pretense at this point, chair scooted closer, leg sliding up Bucky’s calf. “I’m sure we can come up with something.”

“Like what?” Bucky asks, amused.

“Do I need to spell it out for you?” His hand tiptoes up Bucky’s thigh,

“You might.”

“Gonna be hard,” Clint says with a lazy smile. “I can’t spell.”

Bucky waves a hand. “Spelling’s irrelevant.”

“Can’t read, either,” Clint says, then looks alarmed, like he didn’t mean to say that out loud. There’s a haunted look in his eyes, and he glances at Bucky like he’s waiting for something.

Bucky leans forward. “Not at all?” he can’t help asking, because it seems a little incredulous.

“I mean—I can read a little bit,” Barton says, suddenly defensive and indignant. “Does it matter, anyway? We can’t all be professors.” He takes his hand off Bucky’s thigh, expression turning challenging, like he’s daring Bucky to say something.

Bucky wonders how many times he’s been mocked for it, that this is his reaction. He thinks about how Rumlow looked so smug when he was forcing Clint to help Bucky track the scepter. He must’ve known, then, and wanted Clint to be humiliated.

He remembers Clint reading the book upside down, and his insistence that things were written in another language, and the way he’d brought the whole stack of books when Bucky had only asked for one. The way he’d shut down when Bucky had told him he should get an archeology degree. It hurts him, to think that something clearly so painful was used like a weapon against him.

“One of the smartest men I ever knew couldn’t read a single thing,” Bucky says, and Clint tilts his head, expression softening the barest amount. “His father raised him to be a farmer, and he decided to become a mechanic instead. He could barely sign his own name, but he could take apart anything and put it back together without a single issue. He was a genius. And I know plenty of people in academia who are absolute idiots when you take them outside of a classroom. Being able to read doesn’t mean a damn thing, except that you can do it.”

He leans forward, hand sliding into Clint’s under the table. “Whatever anyone’s told you in the past,” he says softly, “that doesn’t matter to me. I’m not going to think less of you for it. You’re smart as hell. You’ve proven it to me time and time again. Reading’s just one piece of the puzzle.” He pauses, then adds, “I can teach you, if you want. It’s really not difficult. And you learn so damn fast, you’d pick it up in no time.”

Clint meets his gaze. There’s something hidden in his eyes, some depth of emotion, and the way he’s looking at Bucky is making him...he doesn’t even know, honestly.

“Come on,” he says, standing up. He fists his hand in Bucky’s shirt and tugs, and Bucky lets himself be pulled to his feet. “We’re going.”

Bucky follows him out to the street, stumbling along after him, like Clint is a magnet pulling him forward. They go back to their tiny apartment, and Bucky’s barely closed the door behind them before Clint is shoving him back into it and kissing him. It’s hot and frantic, bordering on desperation, and Bucky gives it right back. He flips their positions with a quick movement, grinning as Clint mutters an enthusiastic _hell yeah_ into his mouth.

“You like that?” he asks, hitching Clint’s leg up over his hip.

“I love it,” Clint says, breathless. “More. Please.”

“I want to take you to bed,” Bucky murmurs, kissing down his neck.

“Yes,” Clint says immediately, tipping his head back. “God, _yes_ —“

Bucky picks him up, carrying him to the tiny little bedroom. It’s a bit of an effort, but it’s worth it for the enthusiastic whoop he gets out of Clint, and the delighted laugh when Bucky drops him on the bed. “Get down here,” he says, grabbing Bucky’s shirt again, and Bucky lets him pull him down, slotting their mouths together even as his fingers fumble at the buttons on Clint’s shirt.

He finally gets it open, shoving it to expose a long, tanned expanse of bare skin. There’s the scars that Clint showed him a few days ago, and Bucky doesn’t waste a second in getting his mouth on them, pressing a trail of kisses along them.

The noises Clint makes in response to that are _beautiful_ , and so is the way he tips his head back, illuminated by the moonlight spilling in from the window. He arches into Bucky’s touch, one hand curling into his hair. “Get this off,” he says, tugging at Bucky’s shirt with his other hand. “Come on—get it off—”

Bucky wants to make a joke about being patient, but his own self-control is fraying. So he just scrambles at his own buttons, throwing his shirt across the room in a way that he would never do at home. “Up,” he says, and Clint sits up, letting him strip his open shirt the rest of the way off. He pitches that one too, then drops his hands to open Clint’s pants, tugging at them. Clint tips back on his elbows, lifting his hips helpfully. 

Bucky slides them halfway down his thighs, revealing Clint’s dick, already hard, flushed red and dripping. Bucky’s never wanted his mouth on anything more. He pushes Clint flat on the bed, says, “Can I?” and barely waits for the response before he’s swallowing around him, the taste exploding on his tongue.

“Oh _hell_ ,” Clint manages, fingers fisting in the bedcovers. “Bucky—oh my _god_ —”

Bucky hums and keeps working on him. He hasn’t done this in awhile—it’s hard enough to find like-minded men, and he’d probably lose his university position if word of his _interests_ got out—but his lack of practice doesn’t seem to matter. Clint is so responsive—not necessarily loud, but just so _alive_ under his hands, eyes bright and mouth half-open as Bucky does his best to make him feel good.

“Stop,” Clint eventually manages, panting the word out. “Stop—I want to—“ He loses the words, rolling instead to reach for the tiny nightstand. He pulls out two things—slick and a packet of condoms—and shoves them at Bucky. “I want you to fuck me, please—”

Bucky holds both items, momentarily distracted. “Did you just...have these?”

“I plan ahead,” Clint says immediately, a little indignant, and Bucky raises an eyebrow. “Okay, no I don’t. But I had hopes. A guy can dream.”

Bucky shrugs. He doesn’t care. Not when everything he wants is laid out in front of him, glowing faintly in the moonlight. “No judgements from me,” he says, and tugs Clint’s pants off the rest of the way. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “Yea- _ohhh_ —” His mouth goes slack, eyes closing a little as Bucky slips a finger into him. He’s tight, and Bucky swallows hard, thinking about how good _that’s_ going to feel—

“Talk to me,” he says, because if he keeps thinking about it he’s going to spontaneously combust right here. “Tell me—”

“I’m good,” Clint assures him, voice tight. “I’m good, it’s just been awhile. I’m okay. More.”

He keeps talking, as much as the words end up devolving into moans and little bitten-off gasps of pleasure. Bucky takes his time, half out of consideration, half because he’s so entranced by the way Clint is writhing under his touch that he can’t help but be distracted.

But eventually he can’t take it either, and he rolls the condom on, then pushes into him in one slow movement, his eyes closing involuntarily. “ _Oh_ —”

“Yeah,” Clint says, breath hitching. “Yeah—s’good—” He hooks his legs around Bucky’s waist, pulling him closer. “More, please—”

“More,” Bucky agrees, and leans down to kiss him, biting at his lower lip. Clint kisses him back, heated and filthy, before rocking his hips up.

“ _More_ ,” he says again—demands, almost—and Bucky’s helpless to do anything but comply. He fucks into Clint a little more, giving him what he asked for. Pushes one knee up towards his chest, changing the angle in a way that makes Clint cry out, hands weakly gripping at Bucky’s shoulders. “Buck—oh—”

“Right here,” Bucky says, rolling his hips, drawing a series of soft _ah-ah-ah’_ s from him. “Not going anywhere.”

He shifts his weight, slides a hand between them and wraps it around Clint’s dick, thumbing over the head. It doesn’t take long for either of them—something he might normally be embarrassed about, but he doesn’t have the brainpower for it right now—and Clint softly calls his name as he spills into Bucky’s hand, his own fingers twisting in the sheets as his back arches. He clenches around Bucky, and the sudden tightness drags him over the edge too, vision greying around the edges as he leans down for another kiss.

When his breathing is some semblance of normal, and his heart rate is slowly decreasing, he pulls out, rolling on his back next to Clint with a muffled groan. “Jesus,” he mutters, fumbling for the condom, and Clint laughs, sounding just as exhausted.

“Stay here,” he says, and slowly gets up, shuffling into a smaller room off to the side, which must be a bathroom. There’s the sound of running water, and then he comes back a minute later with a wet cloth. He wipes it along Bucky’s body, gentle and easy, then takes it into the bathroom before crawling back into bed. He tucks himself alongside Bucky, easy as anything, curling up like he’s always belonged there.

“Thank you,” Bucky says, pulling him closer.

“Happy to,” Clint murmurs. He sounds half-asleep already. “You took care of me, seems only fair.”

Bucky makes a pleased humming noise and drapes an arm over him. He’s tired too, from the alcohol and the sex, and it doesn’t take long before he drops off as well, drifting into pleasant dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta’ed by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	10. Chapter Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, Barton,” says a third voice, and chills run down Bucky’s spine. Next to him, Clint stiffens, fingers tensing on Bucky’s arm. “I don’t think you’re one to talk, really.” Rumlow steps out from behind the beaded curtain, gun raised and pointed at Bucky.

He wakes with the sunrise, light streaming through the shadeless window. Bucky groans, putting a hand to his head. He’s pleasantly sore, definitely a little hungover, and he’s so warm—

_Clint_ , he thinks suddenly, and turns his head to see a disheveled mess of blond hair barely two inches from his nose. The memory of last night comes back in screaming clarity, and he blinks, forcing himself to sit up.

Around his waist, Clint’s arm tightens. “Where do you think you’re going?” comes a sleep rough voice.

“Water,” Bucky says. “My head hurts.”

“Mmm.” Clint doesn’t let go. “I’ll kiss it better?”

Bucky snorts. “I don’t think that’ll help.”

“Spoilsport.” But he lets Bucky get up and go to the bathroom, then to the kitchen. He comes back with two glasses, and sits on the edge of the bed, settling a hand on Clint’s leg.

“It’s early,” he says, checking his watch. “We don’t have to meet Quill until noon.”

“Yeah.” Clint drinks the water, then sets the glass on the nightstand. He stretches, long and lithe, and tips his head back. “So what do you want to do until then?”

Bucky forgoes answering in favor of watching him, remembering what Clint felt like under his hands, the noises he’d made, the—

“Eyes front and center, soldier,” Clint says with a smirk, and Bucky blinks, drawing himself back to the present with a blush. “Answer the question.”

“Make some breakfast,” Bucky says. “Lay low. You’re cursed by a chaos god, I think the best thing we can possibly do is keep our heads down until we have to go out. We’re pretty close to the end—”

“Or we go out anyway,” Clint says. “The market’s real neat. And look—I’m cursed anyway, right? Which means chaos is gonna happen anywhere I go. Who says it won’t happen here? How do we know the stove won’t suddenly catch on fire and burn this place down?”

Bucky has to concede the point. “I suppose.”

“But I’m happy to stay here,” Clint says, sitting up. “I mean. We can come up with something to do.” He winks at Bucky.

Bucky raises an eyebrow. “What, last night wasn’t enough?”

“Last night was great. Second time is always better.”

“Is that so?” 

“In my experience.” Clint tilts his head. “I mean, if you’re not sure, we could always test the theory. Isn’t that what professors do?”

Bucky nods. “It’s only good science, really.”

“Great,” Clint says, and grabs his shirt, pulling him into a kiss.

The second time is _definitely_ better. Bucky knows the spots now, knows where to put his hands and his mouth to play Clint like a violin, drawing sweet sounds out of him. He’s always been a sucker for this kind of thing, unhurried sex in the early morning light. He likes the intimacy of it, the connection, the way he can see what gets the best reactions. And Clint seems to like it too, whispering his name as he comes, threading his fingers into Bucky’s hair and tugging.

They get dressed, after, and Clint makes breakfast. He doesn’t set the stove on fire, luckily, although he does manage to burn his fingers on a pan. But there’s a look of pride in his eyes as he presents Bucky with eggs and toast, so much that Bucky can’t help but smile back at him.

After breakfast, they get dressed and go out. Clint’s bouncing on his toes, brimming with energy, eager to show him the market. “It’s so cool,” he says. “This is one of my favorite markets. There’s so much stuff. Watch your pockets, though, I’ve been on the wrong end of that a few times.”

“I’ll keep an eye out,” Bucky assures him.

The market really is amazing. Loud, and vibrant, and full of people. Bucky’s been to similar places before, but this one is new to him, and he marvels at the wonder of it all. There’s a lot of ancient architecture around too, which fascinates him to no end. It’s _incredible_ , and he can almost forget about the circumstances that brought them here.

“I knew you’d like it,” Clint says, beaming as he looks at Bucky. “There’s a really great one in Lima, too—in Peru, you know—and we should go, when all this is done. I know a lady there who runs a hell of a stall, she weaves right in front of you and it’s _amazing_ —”

“I’d like that,” Bucky says, and Clint’s smile gets brighter, if possible. He’s like a damn ray of sunshine.

Then it falters. “Except you have to go back to school.”

“At some point,” Bucky agrees, his own good feelings fading a little. He’s not sure how’d they make it work between the two of them. He likes Clint a lot, would love to keep seeing him, but there’s such a difference between their lifestyles—

“Doesn’t matter,” Clint says after a moment, aiming for levity. “We’ve got right now. I try not to plan too far beyond that, really.” His expression lightens. “Chaos curse, you know.”

“I know,” Bucky says, and the tension between them dissipates a little.

They keep walking through the market, moving aimlessly through the stalls, marveling at the variety of things around them. Clint buys them both shawarma, which is excellent, and Bucky manages to scrounge some money from his bag to get them drinks.

In one corner of the market there’s some kind of commotion—not too far from Quill’s place, actually, and Bucky’s instantly on guard. But it turns out to be a broken down car blocking the roadway. It’s a nice car, some kind of Mercedes, and the driver looks mad as hell, swearing loudly in Arabic and waving smoke out of the way as he inspects the engine with a scowl.

“Help me translate,” Clint says suddenly, and he pulls Bucky through the crowd, moving next to the guy. “Can I help?”

The man looks at them suspiciously. “What?” he asks in accented English.

“He wants to help,” Bucky says in Arabic. He nudges Clint. “Can you fix this?”

“I’m great at cars,” Clint says, and picks up a discarded wrench. “Here.”

He is great at cars, apparently, and Bucky struggles to keep up with the translating as he talks while he works, words spilling from him with a surefire intensity. The man, suspicious looking at first, quickly warms up to them, following along in English where he can. “I am Sallah,” he says, and Bucky and Clint introduce themselves as well.

It takes them twenty minutes to fix the car, and by the time they’re done, Clint is sweaty and smudged with grease. He pulls his head out of the engine, a pleased look on his face, and gestures to Sallah. “Try it?”

The car roars into life on the first try, and Clint lets out an excited whoop. “That’s how we do it, people!”

Sallah thanks them profusely and offers them all kinds of rewards, which is how Clint and Bucky end up in his house, sitting around his table and meeting his family. “We really need to go,” Bucky keeps trying to say, but he’s honestly enjoying himself too much to really want to leave. If he’s being honest, he’s enjoying watching Clint too much. Bucky’s a friendly person, but Clint is _charming_ , and fun, and apparently also very good with children. It’s nice to watch him in his element, interacting with people.

It’s past noon by the time they leave, but since Sallah insists on giving them a ride, they’re not too late. “Thank you,” he says, as they pull up outside Quill’s apartment. “We appreciate it.”

“Of course!” Sallah waves goodbye, a jovial smile on his face.

“He invited us back for dinner,” Clint says as they go up the stairs.

“You want to go?”

“Course I do. His wife’s a great cook.” He knocks on the door. “Vague plan—we get the scepters. Real one goes to our place, fake one to the museum. Go to Sallah’s for dinner, go home, have some mind-blowing sex again, and then figure out in the morning how to get you back to Thinis.”

“Works for me,” Bucky says, although he’s not really sure how any of that’s going to actually unfold. Other than the sex part. That he has some ideas for.

“Emphasis on vague,” Clint says, knocking again. “I know there’s logistical issues.”

“You know they’re going to pick us up if we show up at the Thinis site again.”

“Right, but they won’t have the right scepter, so even if they get us and the head of it, nothing will work. Hopefully.” He bangs on the door again. “Quill, it’s Barton!” he calls, then turns to Bucky again. “And another thought—we could drop the scepter head in the mail, ship it overseas to your buddy. Steve, right?”

“That might work.” Bucky thinks about it, then nods. “Actually that would work really well. Steve would take care of it. We should’ve done that sooner.”

Clint’s about to answer when the door finally opens, revealing Quill. He looks...harried, really, eyes darting between them and a strained smile on his face. “Hi,” he says. “You’re late.”

“We got held up,” Clint says. “Sorry about it.” He tilts his head. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Quill says, and his laugh sounds forced. “Come—come in.” He pushes the door open, and Bucky follows him in, suddenly on edge.

The apartment is the same mess as last time—worse, really. It almost looks like it was ransacked, items strewn about haphazardly. Bucky nearly trips over a mess of papers on the floor, catching himself on Clint’s arm. “Whoa—”

“There’s such a thing as cleaning, Quill,” Clint says, steadying him. “I mean—I know you’re a slob, but—”

“Oh, Barton,” says a third voice, and chills run down Bucky’s spine. Next to him, Clint stiffens, fingers tensing on Bucky’s arm. “I don’t think you’re one to talk, really.” Rumlow steps out from behind the beaded curtain, gun raised and pointed at Bucky. Behind him, three other soldiers follow, all of them jackbooted Nazi thugs. “You and I spent some time in close quarters, remember? Compared to you, Mr. Quill’s practically spick and span.” He grins, looking quite delighted with himself.

Clint’s forced laugh trails off into a “...son of a bitch,” as he looks around the room, fingers still vise-gripping Bucky’s arm.

“And Dr. Barnes,” Rumlow says. “Good to see you again. I must say, I’m a little offended. Was our hospitality that bad?”

“You tied me to a chair,” Bucky reminds him.

“Hmm.” Rumlow turns his attention to Clint. “You gave us quite the run-around, you know.”

“That was the idea.” Clint pries his hand off Bucky’s arm and turns slightly, putting himself between Bucky and Rumlow.

Rumlow doesn’t miss the change in position, judging by the raised eyebrow and slight smirk, but he doesn’t comment. He just holds out his other hand, palm out. “I’ll take the scepter head.”

Clint shakes his head. “Don’t have it.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Rumlow says. “You won’t like the consequences.”

“Who says I’m lying?”

“I know you, Barton—”

“You _used_ to,” Clint snaps. “You _used_ to know me. Now you don’t.” He narrows his eyes at Quill, who’s standing in the corner, looking worried. “Didn’t take you as a sell-out, Quill. What’re they paying you?”

“I’m sorry,” Quill says softly. “They have Gamora—”

“Your woman is safe,” Rumlow interrupts. “You held up your end of the deal, we hold up ours. I’m a man of my word, Mr. Quill.”

Clint snorts. “I’ll believe that when I see it.”

Rumlow rolls his eyes. “Enough with the theatrics, Barton. It’s over. We already have the scepter in hand—the real one,” he adds, and Clint’s jaw tightens. “Yes, we know what you were trying to do. A clever plan, I’ll admit. But not clever enough. We have the real one, all we need is the head of it. And you.” He levels his gun at Bucky. “So, I’ll ask one time. Are you going to cooperate with us? Or do I have to put a bullet in Dr. Barnes?”

“You won’t shoot him,” Clint says, and there’s a confidence in his voice that Bucky wishes he felt. “There’s more occult things out there. I know Hydra. I know what you all want. He’s useful to you, you won’t—”

The gunshot is loud, shattering the wall just over Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky yelps as pieces of it strike him, some of them drawing blood. He ducks away, hands half-raised to protect his head.

“We want him alive,” Rumlow says, cocking the gun. “But not necessarily unharmed. I _will_ shoot him if I have to. Don’t test me, Barton. My patience is running out.”

Clint grits his teeth. “Fine,” he says. “Fine. We’ll go.” He taps his jacket pocket. “Can I pay the man, first? Did all that work for me, you know. And I promised.”

“Certainly,” Rumlow says, flashing an unfriendly smile. “We’re not unreasonable.”

Clint mutters something and reaches into his pocket. The Nazis all raise their guns, and he makes a face at them before pulling out a closed leather pouch. “I added some extra,” he says to Quill. “For the gem, but I suppose also for these assholes. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for you to get involved in this.”

“Perks of working with you,” Quill sighs, and holds a hand out. “Thanks, Barton. Take care.”

“Yeah,” Clint says, and tosses the pouch to him.

There’s a moment where it’s in the air, and everyone—Bucky included—is watching it make the arc. It’s almost in slow motion, the way it tumbles through the air, end over end, coins jingling.

It’s in that moment that Clint makes his move. He drops to the floor and grabs something—a pack of playing cards. His wrist flicks out in a quick motion, there’s a blur from the cards, and then suddenly Rumlow and the soldiers are staggering backwards, all of them putting a hand to their throats.

“Move!” Clint yells, and grabs Bucky’s hand, dragging him out the door.

They tear down the stairs and out into the street, fading back into the crowds. Clint ducks and weaves through the marketplace, pulling Bucky with him. After a few minutes, they duck into an alley, both of them panting.

“They’ll have people,” Clint says. “There’s always people around.” He shoves the scepter head into Bucky’s pocket. “Take this, they shouldn’t get both—”

“I...didn’t...see...any...people,” Bucky gasps, a little winded.

“They’re around.” Clint leans around the corner. “Okay. Here’s what I’m—”

He cuts off as somebody grabs him—full on picks him up off the ground, feet kicking in the air. Clint yells and twists in their arms, trying to free himself. “Bucky!”

Bucky doesn’t answer, just throws himself forward and punches the guy in the face. He staggers, dropping Clint, who rolls to his feet and turns, smoothly hitting a second guy coming around the corner.

“Told you so,” he grunts, and grabs Bucky’s hand. Then— “Duck!”

Bucky ducks, and Clint punches another guy in the face over his head, sending him staggering backwards. Then he lunges to the side, diving for the closest stall. This one’s selling cookware, pots and pans and knives. Clint grabs a handful of knives in his right and starts throwing them with his left, hitting their assailants with deadly accuracy. It’s incredible to watch, really, and Bucky finds himself half-frozen, staring in awe as he throws the last one.

“We need to move,” Clint says, turning to him, and a slight smirk crosses his face. “I know. I’m awesome.”

“This isn’t the time,” Bucky says, blushing even as he grabs Clint’s arm to pull him out of the alley. “Come on!”

They run down the street, chased by more people garbed in robes with their faces covered. There’s a hay cart in the middle of the road, attached to a horse. Bucky pulls Clint over to it, then picks him up and throws him in the back, ignoring his indignant shriek as he does so. “Get up front!” he yells, and uncoils the whip from his side. There’s a familiar _crack_ as he wields it, the snap of it making their pursuers back up. He just needs to buy a few seconds for Clint to get up in the front, grab the reins—

The cart starts moving, and Clint yells something that Bucky can’t quite make out. He turns to look, but then one of the robed men attacks him, and Bucky finds himself in another fistfight. Several punches later, he knocks the last one to the ground and sprints after the cart, whip coiled loosely in his hand.

He scrambles onto the cart and looks around, but Clint is nowhere to be seen. “Clint!” he yells, his voice blending into the hubbub of the marketplace. “ _Clint!_ ”

When Clint doesn’t show, he gets off the cart and spins around, desperately searching the mass of people. They must have grabbed him, then, but where would they—

There’s a collective gasp and murmured voices. Bucky turns around slowly, a sense of dread in his stomach. Like the parting of the Red Sea, the crowd is split in two, and standing on the other side is a man dressed in black. He’s wielding a sword, spinning it in a flashy manner, tossing it from hand to hand. There’s a challenge in his laugh, like he’s daring Bucky to take him on.

Bucky rolls his eyes. He’s not stupid enough to get involved in this, and he needs to get to Clint. So he just draws his gun and fires off a shot, nailing the guy in the chest before turning around and scanning the now-screaming crowd.

“Bucky!”

He spins around. “Where—”

There. There’s two men carrying a basket on their shoulders, hurrying down another alley. As he watches, a hand pokes its way out of the basket and waving frantically.

Bucky doesn’t waste a second. He shoves his way through the crowd, chasing the basket. He loses track once or twice, lost in the maze of empty streets behind the market, and eventually has to stop, looking around frantically. “CLINT!”

“Bucky!” comes the yell back, followed by a string of impressive cursing. Bucky follows the sound of it, finally catching a glimpse of them as he runs into—

“Fuck,” he growls, looking around at the sheer amount of baskets in front of him. There’s at least fifty of them, all being carried by a mass of people, how the hell is he supposed to—

“Bucky!”

Bucky runs into the crowd, shoving baskets at random. Clint’s gotta be in one of these, he’s around here _somewhere_ —

He shoves one basket, and the men carrying it topple over. The lid pops off and Clint emerges, scrambling his way out of the basket with an annoyed expression. Bucky grabs his arm, pulls him to his feet. “How the hell did you get in there?”

“I was hiding,” Clint growls as they . “They chased me off that damn cart—thanks for _that_ , by the way—and I ducked in one of these to hide.”

“How’d they find you?”

“Believe it or not, a monkey told them—”

“A _monkey?_ How the hell—”

“Is this really time for specifics?” Clint ducks as another man in a robe swings a sword at him, scattering nearby people. “I’ll tell you the story over drinks, let’s just get the hell outta here!”

They duck the guy with the sword and turn down another street towards a large transport truck, only to pull back at a burst of machine gun fire that sprays the ground in front of them. Clint yelps and shoves Bucky backwards.

“I thought they wanted us _alive_ ,” Bucky says, leaning to peer around the corner.

“Who knows what the hell they want,” Clint mutters. “But I think we should—”

Bucky doesn’t get to hear the rest of it. A hand grabs his jacket, yanking him backwards, and there’s suddenly the cold barrel of a gun pressed to his head. “Don’t move,” a familiar voice hisses in his ear.

Bucky twists, throwing a wild punch. It misses, and then someone else is grabbing him, twisting his hand back. Two more people join, and before long Bucky’s wrestled to the ground, whip and gun and bag pulled away. “Clint—” he manages, before one of them punches him in the face.

Time goes a little fuzzy after that. Bucky comes back to himself when they shove him on his knees, hands tied behind his back. There’s blood running down his face, and his vision is blurry, but—

“Get out here, Barton,” someone yells. Bucky blinks, forcing himself to focus. Rumlow’s standing behind him, gun to the back of his head. Pierce is to his left, impeccably dressed in a suit that’s got to be too hot for the weather. There are others, too, more than there’s been before, and Bucky really wonders where they’re all coming from. Is there an endless supply of Nazis in Cairo? Do they ship them in from somewhere?

He shakes his head hard. _Focus, Barnes. This is important._

Silence falls, and then down the road, just before the truck, Barton emerges from around the corner, carrying a long knife in one hand. His normally sunny demeanor is gone, and he’s wearing a furious expression that Bucky’s never seen on him before. There’s a chilly intent to him now as he steps forward, eyes fixed on Rumlow and Pierce.

“Game’s over,” Pierce says. “Put the knife down, Barton.”

“It’s not over until it’s over,” Clint says, voice cold as hell. “Let him go, Alexander. This is between you and me.”

“It might’ve been.” Pierce crosses his arms. “But then you made it between all of us, and this is the natural consequence of that.” He gestures to Bucky. “I don’t want this any more than you do, but this is where we are. So...” He tilts his head. “Are you going to cooperate?”

“Have you ever known me to cooperate?” Clint asks, an almost feral smile curving his mouth.

“Barton—” Rumlow shoves the gun harder into Bucky’s head. “We _will_ kill him.”

“You kill him, you lose your leverage,” Clint snarls.

“We can do a lot to him before he’s dead, too,” Rumlow snarls right back. “You want us to hurt him?”

“You don’t have any other choices,” Pierce says. “Either you cooperate, or we kill him. That’s it.”

Clint shakes his head. “There’s a third option.”

“There’s nowhere to run,” Rumlow says. “Not this time.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” And he puts the knife to his throat.

There’s a general chorus of shouting, and they all surge forward. Bucky’s heart drops as Clint backs up, flawlessly jumping onto the truck. “I’ll do it!” he shouts.

“No, you won’t,” Rumlow says, almost dismissive. “You like yourself too much for that.”

“Fate of the world,” Clint says, eyes on him. “I think my life’s worth that.”

_It’s not,_ Bucky wants to scream, but he doesn’t say anything. Clint’s making some kind of play. He’s not going to mess with it. 

Rumlow snorts. “And if we give him to you, where do you think you’re going to go? Surely you don’t think you can escape us forever?”

“That depends on how reasonable we’re all willing to be,” Clint says. “You can have your stupid scepter. All I want is the professor.” 

Pierce steps forward. “Go ahead,” he says, and a dead silence settles over the group. “If that’s the choice you want to make? Fine.”

Clint stares at him, a hint of confusion settling over his face. Like he didn’t expect Pierce to call his bluff on it. “I will,” he says, maybe a little less convincing than before. “You need me alive, right? Your little plan doesn’t work without me.”

“But this is what will happen if you die,” Pierce says. His voice is calm and controlled, but Bucky can hear the rage under it. “You’re right. We won’t be able to summon Set. But you know what we _will_ do? We will kill Dr. Barnes here, slowly and painfully, over the course of multiple days. Then Mr. Quill. Then we’ll find your smuggling friend, the one with the red hair. We’ll even find the man who dropped you off here. Delightful man, just trying to repay a good deed. We’ll slaughter him as well, and his family. In fact, everyone who’s _ever_ helped you will die, and they will die bloody, and it will be your fault.”

Clint’s frozen, staring at him with wide eyes. His hand is shaking.

“They didn’t do anything,” he says softly, and Pierce nods.

“You’re right. All they ever did was help you. And if you follow through on this, they’ll regret that until the moment they die.” He takes a step forward. “Which won’t be for a very, very long time. Not if I have anything to say about it.” Another step. “And I will.”

Clint flicks his eyes to Bucky, anguish in them. “I—” he starts.

“You have ten seconds to decide,” Pierce says, and Clint makes a pained sound, eyes going back to him. “I suggest you choose wisely.”

There’s another second of hesitation. Then the knife is clattering to the ground, and Clint drags in a deep breath, like he’s coming up from underwater. “Don’t hurt anyone,” he says, desperate. “Please. Don’t hurt anyone.”

“Excellent choice,” Pierce says, and motions forward. Three of the Nazis grab Clint and drag him off the truck, one of them tying his hands behind his back, the other picking up the discarded knife. “I knew you’d come around.”

“No one gets hurt,” Clint demands, louder this time. “You hear me?”

“You’re not in a position to make demands, Mr. Barton,” Pierce says. “But do as we ask, and no one needs to be hurt. I’m a man of my word.” He gestures to the van. “Get them inside, please. We have a long ways to go.”

“Where are we going?”

“You’ll see.” Pierce nods at the soldiers, then goes and gets in the Cadillac.

They grab Bucky and Clint, roughly shoving them into the back of the cargo truck, tying them back to back. It’s almost like the first night all over again, except this time, all the soldiers climb in with them. Bucky grimaces and they awkwardly shift upright. “Hey,” he murmurs, nudging him as best he can. “You alright?”

“I’m fine,” Clint says, and Bucky knows he’s lying. “Okay. How do we get out of this one?”

“Exceptional wit and cleverness,” Bucky says, and Clint lets out a short laugh. “I don’t know. But we’re together, at least. We’ll figure something out.”

“Hell yeah we will,” Clint says, a tired determination in his voice, and Bucky feels something like pride in his chest. That’s the Clint he’s getting to know. Always up for one more fight.

“No talking,” one of the soldiers orders, pointing a gun at them. “Or we shoot.”

“I hope you fall off this truck,” Clint retorts, but when more guns point at them, they both fall silent.

Behind his back, Clint’s fingers wind into his. Bucky squeezes once, and Clint does in response, and they sit there quietly as the truck trundles on into an uncertain future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _whistles casually and pretends this was posted on time_ Sorry sorry sorry. Was celebrating week one of a new job, and I may have forgotten a teeny bit :D 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta’ed by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	11. Chapter Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Who summons me?” asks a voice as stormy as the eyes. “Name yourselves, mortals.”
> 
> The words aren’t in English, but Bucky hears them as such, even as his ears tell him it's a different language. Clint looks just as alarmed by this, but he shivers a little bit and steps forward.
> 
> “Clint Barton,” he says. “I summoned you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for anti-Semitism, Nazi-style

An hour or so later, when the soldiers don’t seem quite so twitchy, Bucky chances talking. “Where do you think we’re going?”

“How should I know?” Clint’s voice is dull, tired-sounding. “You’re the archeologist. Did the crazy chaos god have any special places? Temples or anything?”

“A few,” Bucky says, thinking hard. “Sepermeru. Kharga. Deir el-Hagar. Kellis. Dakhlah.”

“Are those actually words, or are you just making up sounds?”

Bucky grins. “They’re places, Clint. Places where Set was worshipped as a deity.”

“But he’s a bad guy.”

“He wasn’t always. Not until the Third Intermediate and Late Periods. But he was also the god of foreigners, and when foreigners started invading and taking over...” He shrugs. “He was demonized. But he used to be the protector of Ra. He helped defeat Apep.”

“The snake guy,” Clint says. “Right? The snake Ra fought at night.”

Bucky nods, then remembers Clint can’t see him. “Yes. Some accounts have him traveling with Ra to help defeat Apep. So he was worshipped along with the rest of them, and it wasn’t until later that he was vilified. Point being, he has temples. Those are some of the places. I think...” He falls quiet for a moment, mind working. “I think Sepermeru would be the most obvious place—assuming their goal is to even take us to one of the temples. For all we know, they could be taking us to Berlin to hand us over to Hitler.”

“That’s pessimistic,” Clint says. “Maybe they’re taking us to the beach.”

Bucky snorts. “The beach? Really?”

“Yeah. Nice vacation day before world domination, you know? Go surfing, check out the sights. Everyone relaxes a little before we call down the end of the world.”

Bucky laughs, which draws the attention of the soldiers again. But they don’t seem interested in telling them off, so after a moment, he keeps talking. “Do you think they always tie up people to take them on vacation?”

“Then we can’t escape and ruin the surprise,” Clint says confidently, and Bucky laughs again.

“Well,” he says. “At the very least, if I had to be tied up and forced on vacation, I’m glad it’s with you.”

“I’ll treasure that forever,” Clint says, and squirms against him. “Damn. Could really use a bathroom break. How long do you think they’re gonna keep us in here?”

Bucky shrugs. “Depends on where we’re going. Could be anywhere between two and seven hours.”

“Hope it’s the first one,” Clint mutters, shifting again.

It is, actually. After another hour, the truck slows, then trundles off the road. Bucky sits up a little straighter, ready for anything. Not that he really has a plan, short of either breaking the scepter or grabbing the head of it and hurling it into the desert as far as he can.

“I see you’re still where we put you,” Rumlow says, hopping up in the truck. “Finally find a knot you couldn’t slip?”

“More like I didn’t feel like getting shot for the effort,” Clint says. “Where the hell are we?”

“You’ll see.” He cuts the ropes holding them together, then pulls Bucky up to his feet, shoving him at the soldiers. “Take him outside.”

Bucky squints in the sunlight as they drag him down and off the truck. “Where are we?”

“Sepermeru,” says Pierce, crossing his arms, and Bucky feels a little flare of pride at guessing correctly. Pierce gestures behind him. “Take a look.”

Bucky turns around, his eyes widening. “Oh.”

It’s an inadequate expression, but it’s all he’s got. They’re at the base of a large mountain, tall and impressive, stretching up to the sky. It would be something in and of itself, but then carved into the base of of it—

“That’s amazing,” Bucky says, unable to stop himself. It really is, though, and he doesn’t know how else to describe it. There’s two _massive_ statues of Set at the front, both standing tall and regal, bracketing an entrance hidden in shadow. They’re surrounded by stone columns carved with lines of neat hieroglyphics. Bucky’s desperate to get closer and read them, see if there’s anything inside, walk the paths of history—

“Look at them,” he marvels, unable and unwilling to hide the sense of wonder in his voice. “I didn’t know this was here.”

“We’ve been keeping it under wraps,” Pierce says. “This was one of the first places we started looking for the scepter, after deciphering the history of it that’s carved on the wall deeper into the temple. And there’s been other finds as well. Believe it or not, Dr. Barnes, I do have a vested interest in archeology. I enjoy learning about the past just as much as you do.”

Rumlow climbs out of the truck, pulling Clint after him. He shoves Clint in the dirt at Bucky’s feet, scowling. Clint’s nose is bleeding now, and there’s a feral grin on his face that makes him look a little unhinged.

“Brock,” Pierce says, exasperated. “We need him.”

“He bit me,” Rumlow snaps.

Clint grins. “I warned you not to touch me.”

Pierce rolls his eyes. “Bring them in,” he sighs, and starts walking towards the entrance of the temple.

They don’t go very far inside the temple, which disappoints Bucky. They stop on the downward slope just after the entrance. There’s a large, open area before him, and on the floor is a stone dais carved with intricate hieroglyphs. A large stone bowl rests on a pedestal in the center of, uncharted and imposing.

He can see from where they are that there’s a number of branching paths leading off deeper into the temple. He aches to go explore them, wishes they’d found this place under better circumstances. It would be incredible to set up a dig here. There’s so much to explore—even just standing here, he can see—

A loud crashing noise draws his attention back to the moment, and Bucky winces as one of the lights they’re setting up topples over, leaving a scratch on one of the nearby pillars. Rumlow growls and scolds the soldier in German, then shakes his head conspiratorially at Bucky.

“Got any plans?” Clint murmurs next to him. He’s bouncing on the tips of his toes, the nervous energy spilling off him almost tangible.

“No,” Bucky admits. “I was kind of hoping you would.”

Clint winces. “I don’t. Not anything that’s going to get both of us out of here alive.”

“Shut up,” one of the soldiers says, tapping Clint on the head with his gun. Clint scowls at him, then turns back to Bucky.

“I could—” he starts, but then Rumlow comes over and spreads his arms out.

“What do you think?” he asks Bucky. “The history here is magnificent, isn’t it? We were surprised to find this place so...intact.”

“It is impressive,” Bucky admits. “Pierce says you found the history of the scepter here? On the wall? I’d like to see that.” Maybe it offers a way out, one that will let him and Clint escape alive. Something that the rest of them overlooked.

“In due time, certainly. It’s deeper into the temple, I’d be happy to. Right now, we have something else that needs to get done.” And he turns to Clint. “Are you ready to make history?”

“If you put that thing in my hands,” Clint says, “I’m going to hit you over the head with it. Fair warning.”

Bucky grins, because there’s something so incredible about Barton making threats even when he’s so clearly outmatched. It’s endearing, in a way. Rumlow just rolls his eyes and drags Barton further down the slope and onto the dais, putting him right before the bowl. “Stay here,” he orders. “The rest of you, get to painting. Be careful, we have to make these exactly right.”

Bucky winces as the soldiers begin to open cans of paint, dipping in brushes and painting symbols around the perimeter of the dais. “Does that _have_ to be done?” he asks Pierce, who’s watching with an impassive expression. “That’s going to destroy the dais.”

“We have it recorded,” Pierce says. “And yes, it does. There’s a complex ritual that goes along with this. The glyphs are part of it.” He crosses his arms. “I apologize, Dr. Barnes. I’m sure this is difficult for you to watch.”

Bucky shakes his head. “This isn’t going to end well,” he says. “Set—you understand he’s the god of chaos and storms, right? What exactly are you planning to do here?”

“That doesn’t concern you,” Pierce says. “You are here for one purpose, and one purpose only—you’re keeping Mr. Barton in line.”

“And what’s going to happen after that?” Bucky asks, not entirely sure he wants to hear the answer. “Because from the sounds of it—”

“I’ve told you before,” Pierce says, eyes on the proceedings below, “that we’d like to work with you. Whatever Barton has told you, Dr. Barnes, we’re not bad people. We merely want to restore our country to its former glory. Is that such a bad thing? I know you’ve traveled extensively, I’m sure you remember the Reich in all its beauty—”

“I know how you’re treating Jewish people,” Bucky says, his voice tight. “I’ve read the newspapers. I have friends in Germany. It’s despicable—”

“I fail to see how that concerns you—”

“I _am_ Jewish, asshole,” Bucky snaps, which is probably the stupidest thing he could say out loud in a roomful of Nazis. There’s a tiny bit of amusement, though, in the way Pierce’s eyes go tight and he flinches away Bucky like Bucky had just told him he’s highly contagious. “You _really_ think I’m going to work for you?”

Pierce’s jaw tightens. “We’ll discuss it,” is all he says, and moves down the slope towards the dais.

Bucky watches him go, a sick sense of dread spreading through him. _Not_ _smart_ , he thinks, but there’s no taking it back now.

“Pig,” one of the soldiers spits at him. Bucky grimaces and does his best to hold still, not attract more attention. Last thing he needs is one of them shooting him out of spite.

On the dais, Rumlow unties Clint, then grabs his arm, pulling it forward over the bowl. He drags a knife blade across Clint’s forearm, making three slices. Clint yells and struggles, but the soldiers hold him tightly, and Rumlow keeps his arm over the bowl, letting the blood drip into it. Around them, the soldiers continue setting up, lighting white wax candles and setting them at equal intervals between the glyphs.

Clint finally yanks his arm back from Rumlow, scowling at him. “Was that necessary?”

“The ritual requires blood to work,” Rumlow says. “So, yes.”

Clint starts to answer, but Pierce interrupts him, holding out a piece of paper. “This is what you need to say. Repeat that, word for word. Any deviation, and you know the consequences.”

Clint looks at it, then raises an eyebrow. “Little hitch in your plans here, friend.”

“He can’t read,” Rumlow says, a smirk spreading across his face.

“Ah, I’d forgotten.” Pierce turns to Bucky with a cruel smile. “Well, then. It appears we have a job for you after all, Dr. Barnes.”

“No,” Clint says immediately. “No, he’s not getting involved, I won’t do it—”

“The posturing is admirable, Mr. Barton, but you don’t have a choice. If you don’t cooperate, we’ll hurt Dr. Barnes. Extensively, and painfully. Please don’t make us do that.” He sounds regretful, but there’s an underlying glee to his voice, like he’d love nothing more than to hurt Bucky.

_I shouldn’t have told them_ , Bucky thinks, but there’s a little sense of pride in him anyway. He’s tired of being pushed around by these guys, tired of trying to play nice. It’s time to lay the cards on the table, no matter what hand they show.

The soldiers pull Bucky forward, shoving him up onto the dais next to Clint. His hands are roughly untied, and Pierce pushes the paper into his hand. “Read that. No funny business, please, I know what it says, and I will not hesitate to deliver consequences if you go off script.”

“We’ll do it,” Clint snaps, moving forward, trying to put himself between Bucky and Pierce. “Just leave him alone.” He turns to Bucky, unable to disguise the worry in his eyes. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Bucky says. “How’s your arm?”

“Hurts like hell.” He scowls at Rumlow, who looks entirely unrepentant. “Read it, then. Let’s get this show on the road.”

“First, the scepter,” Rumlow says, and gestures. A soldier comes up to the dais, handing both the scepter and the head to Clint. He takes them gingerly, an unreadable expression crossing his face as his fingers close around the head. Bucky wonders if he feels the power thrumming through it, like Bucky did when he first touched it.

“So what,” Clint says, holding one item in each hand. “Are we supposed to glue them together, or what?”

“Just press them together,” Pierce says, and everyone else backs off the dais, leaving the two of them standing alone.

Clint looks skeptical, but he fits the two pieces together. As soon as he does so, there’s a tension in the room. Even Bucky finds himself holding his breath, waiting for...something. He doesn’t know what.

For a moment, nothing happens. Clint stands there, holding the pieces together, then looks up at Rumlow. “You got a plan B?” he asks. “Because I don’t think this—”

In his hands, the staff suddenly glows with a dark, glittery gold, the two pieces sealing themselves together. The room suddenly seems to fill with darkness, the sunlight from outside fading, disappearing into nothing. There’s a sense of power surrounding them, like the moment before a lightning strike, static electricity sparking along Bucky’s skin.

“It’s working,” Pierce says, eyes bright. “It’s _working_.” He turns to Bucky. “The words, quickly.”

Bucky does _not_ want to say the words. He wants to tear up the paper and throw the scraps into the wind that’s suddenly picking up around them. But there’s at least a dozen guns aimed in their direction, and a dozen fingers on the trigger, and Bucky knows that if he makes a move to do so, they’re both going to regret it. He meets Clint’s eyes, can see he’s coming to the same conclusion. There’s no way out of this one. No way except forward.

“With my pain, I summon thee,” Bucky says, and Clint repeats the words. “With my knife, I summon thee. With my blood, I summon thee. Come forth unto me...Set.”

There’s a flash of light, like a bolt of lightning. Then an inky blackness descends, circling around Clint and Bucky, wrapping them in a swirl. It feels _old_ , evil, and Bucky unconsciously moves closer to Clint, reaching down and taking his hand. Clint squeezes his fingers, other hand firmly wrapped around the staff.

“I don’t like this,” he murmurs.

A low chuckle splits the air. It sends chills down Bucky’s spine, enough to make him shudder forcefully. From the darkness, a shape emerges. Bucky can’t tell if it’s a human or an animal, the face is shifting and moving too fast for him to see properly. The only thing that stays constant is the eyes—cold, calculating, irises swirling like a storm. It’s _terrifying_ , and Bucky feels an urge to turn and run, as far and as fast as he can.

“Who summons me?” asks a voice as stormy as the eyes. “Name yourselves, mortals.”

The words aren’t in English, but Bucky hears them as such, even as his ears tell him it's a different language. Clint looks just as alarmed by this, but he shivers a little bit and steps forward.

“Clint Barton,” he says. “I summoned you.”

A clawed hand extends forward, brushes along Clint’s jaw. Clint flinches backwards and Set chuckles again. “You are a pretty one,” he says, condescending amusement written all over him. Then he chuckles again and grabs Clint, pulling him closer, yanking his hand out of Bucky’s grip as he lifts Clint off the ground to inspect him. “You smell of him, you know. The last one who summoned me. Atemu.” He spits the name like it’s poison.

“I’m a descendent,” Clint says faintly. He’s shaking, but his voice is steady. “Put me _down_.”

Set scoffs. “Mortal. You will not make demands of me.”

“I have the scary stick.” Clint holds up the scepter. “So...I think I can, actually.”

The eyes narrow and the fingers tighten, like he’s going to rip Clint in half. But after a moment, he shakes his head and lowers him to the ground. “You mortals never understand the power you claim to wield so easily.”

“If it helps,” Clint says, standing his ground as he straightens his shirt, “I don’t really want to wield it.”

Set tilts his head. His face maintains its human form for a moment, and there’s a flicker of...interest, almost. “Is that so?”

“They made me,” Clint says. “The Nazis. The ones—” He gestures outside the circle. “They’re out there. They threatened people. I had to.”

Set starts laughing. It’s cold and loud, and Bucky hates it. “Humans never change,” he says, and spreads his arms wide. “All of you, always the same. Let me guess. They want war. They want bloodshed.” He smiles, just as icy as the rest of him. “They want _chaos_.”

“They don’t just want war,” Bucky says, and Set’s eyes move to him. His mouth is dry, but he pushes on. “They want destruction. They want the whole world ruined until everyone matches their idea of what a person should be.”

Set takes a step forward. “And who’s this?” There’s a cruel undertone to his voice. “Atemu’s descendants share his...proclivities, I see.”

“He’s with me,” Clint says firmly, darting between them. He holds the scepter up like a sword. “He’s under my protection.”

“Is that so?” But he doesn’t come any closer, and after a moment, his gaze settles back onto Clint. “Why shouldn’t I do as your masters ask, mortal? Why shouldn’t there be fire and chaos and storms?” He reaches forward, cups his hand around Clint’s chin. “Why shouldn’t there be bloodshed?”

“Because what they want is wrong,” Clint says. “Because—

“Your morals mean nothing to me.” Set’s eyes narrow again. “I am older than you can imagine, mortal. I have watched the birth and fall of empires, seen the seasons pass and the earth grow old under my feet. I walked the deserts when they had water, and plants covered the ground. Do you think your petty human squabbles mean something to me?” His fingers tighten, and Clint makes a choked sound. “They mean _nothing_. If the world is to drown in blood and fire, what do I care? I will _revel_ in it.”

He shoves Clint backwards, and Bucky barely manages to catch him. Clint’s eyes meet his, his own terror reflected back at him.

“So I ask again,” Set says, and he seems to grow taller, voice booming louder. The wind starts to pick up around them, whipping at their clothes. Bucky grabs his hat, trying to pin it in place while holding onto Clint with the other. “Why shouldn’t I do as they ask? Why shouldn’t I unleash myself upon this world once more? I ruled here before, years ago. Why shouldn’t I rule again?”

Clint’s fingers tighten on Bucky’s arm. “Because they want to control you!” he shouts, barely audible above the wind.

Set looks down at them, head firmly in the set-animal visage—longer, with a curved snout and rectangular ears. It’s the most terrifying thing Bucky’s ever seen in his life. Those cold stormy eyes meet his, and he knows in that moment that if he wanted to, Set could absolutely destroy him without a second thought, and he could make it _hurt_.

But then the wind begins to die down, and Set seems to shrink again, returning to his former height. Clint straightens up, taking his hand off Bucky’s arm, and turns to face him head on.

“They don’t want to worship you,” he says, stepping forward. “They don’t care about that, about giving you your due. There won’t be festivals in your name, or temples, or any of that shit. They’ll take you out, use you like a weapon, and then put you away. That’s what they want. Like a pet. A really, really dangerous pet.”

“I am a _god_ ,” Set snarls. “How dare you—”

“Not me,” Clint interrupts. “Them. The ones who made me call you? That’s what they want. They want control, and fear, and they’ll use any means necessary to get it.”

“He’s telling the truth,” Bucky says quietly. “They want to bend the world to their will. And they won’t make allowances for gods. Not if they have control.”

“They have no control!”

“But they do,” Bucky says. “As long as they have this.” And he points at the scepter.

“That means nothing,” Set laughs derisively. “A thing the priests made up, to help them ease their fear. A trinket.”

“So take it from me,” Clint says. “If it’s just a trinket.” He raises it like a challenge, eyes steady on Set’s. Bucky tenses, but doesn’t say anything. Just watches, a tiny part of him marveling at the bravery as Clint calls a god’s bluff.

Set growls, the sound reverberating around them as he raises a clawed hand, almost as if to slash them. “You tread on dangerous ground, human.”

“I’m always on dangerous ground,” Clint says, and a crooked smile flashes over his face. “I want to make a deal.”

There’s a long pause, where Bucky’s fairly certain that Set’s going to ignore him and eviscerate them both. Then another growl rumbles through the air, and Set lowers his claw. “Speak.”

“The people out there—” Clint waves at the edge of the dais “—want to use this to control you.” He taps the scepter with a finger. “But I wanna offer you something else.”

“What could you possibly—”

“This.” Clint offers the scepter forward. “Your freedom. You’re stuck in the other realm without this, right? You can only walk the earth when you’re summoned.” He glances at Bucky, then swallows and goes on. “If you get rid of the people out there, then I’ll give it to you.”

Set’s face flickers again, moving back and forth between the human and the animal. “Is that so?”

“You’ll have chaos,” Clint says. He takes a deep breath, sounding tense. “As much as you want. Whenever you want. No more waiting for someone to call you.”

“And what do you get out of this?” Set asks, stepping forward. Clint flinches backwards a little. “Tell me, brave mortal. What end of the bargain benefits you?”

“I just want to live,” Clint says quietly. “I just want to walk out of here, with him, and go home. That’s all I want.”

Set studies him for a moment, a thousand years flickering in his eyes. “Is this the deal you offer, then?”

“It is,” Clint says. “Our lives for the scepter. That’s the deal.”

Another moment of silence, and then Set nods. “I accept your terms, mortal.”

He claps his hands, and around them, the blackness suddenly vanishes. Pierce, Rumlow, and the rest of them are standing there, guns up and faces tight with tension. There’s an awkward beat of silence, a little stand-off. Then Pierce steps forward, eyes lit up. “My lord,” he starts. “We’ve been waiting—”

“Silence,” Set snarls, head firmly set in the animal visage. “Silence, all of you. I know your plans.”

“Our plans—”

“You think you can control me,” Set growls, and he starts growing again, voice deepening. “You think you can use me as a weapon, like I am some mere object to be manipulated.”

“My lord—”

“You are such arrogant, foolish mortals.” Set narrows his eyes, lightning sparking between his fingers. “I am a _god_. I am not to be toyed with. I am not to be _used_ to further your means.”

“But we—”

“You had all of history to learn from. Thousands of years, and you continue to make the same mistakes.” The lightning sparks further, growing in size. “Allow me, then, to teach you otherwise.”

Pierce never gets a chance to make any further protest. The lightning arcs from Set’s fingers, slamming into his chest in a brilliant flash of light. Pierce howls, the sound dragged out of him, high and piercing. Bucky stares in horror as his face seems to _melt_ , skin suddenly sagging, eyes becoming gaunt and sunken. His flesh turns white, dripping down like candle wax, and then it’s _gone_ , mixing with red blood as it runs down his face. A skeleton appears underneath it, offering a gruesome grin, and then that’s gone after a beat too. The only thing left in the end is a pile of ashes on the ground.

“NO!” Rumlow yells, running forward. But then lightning strikes him too, burning through him. A dozen other arcs fly out, the rest of the soldiers collapsing into melted heaps. Bucky has to turn his head away. Clint’s free hand comes up to rest on his shoulders, but he doesn’t move. He keeps watching, lightning reflected in his eyes, jaw tense.

“We had to,” Bucky murmurs.

“I know,” he says, but he sounds sick anyway.

Bucky only turns around when the screaming stops. There’s nothing left of them anymore, nothing except piles on the ground. Smears, where there used to be people. And yeah, they kidnapped and threatened him, and they were awful humans, but Bucky can’t help but feel a flash of sorrow. They were people, terrible or not. They were sons, brothers, fathers. They had families and lives. They never expected to die here, in a desert, at the hands of a god they probably didn’t even believe in.

Set surveys the piles with a satisfied noise, then nods and turns to them. “The scepter,” he says, and holds out his hand.

Clint doesn’t move. He’s staring at what used to be Rumlow, unblinking, fingers clenched tight around the scepter.

“Clint,” Bucky murmurs, trying not to panic at the growing sense of darkness from behind him. “Clint, we have to give it to him.”

“I don’t trust him,” Clint says back, just as quiet.

“I don’t either. But we made a deal.”

“But look at what he did.” Clint gestures to the piles. “He—Bucky, we could keep it, he can’t hurt us—we could have it—”

“And do what?” Bucky gently closes his fingers over Clint’s wrist.

“Help people.” Clint meets his eyes. “We could—think about it, Bucky. We could—all the people that they’re hurting—he could take care of it—” He stutters over the words, struggling to find something, and looks down at the scepter. “Think of it—”

“Mortal.” Set’s voice is commanding, imposing. “I believe you have something to give me.”

Bucky reaches out and tips his chin up. “That’s not our choice,” he says softly. “To play god. We don’t get to make that decision.”

“But—”

“You’re a good man,” Bucky says. “I know you wouldn’t misuse it. But it’s still not your choice. That’s too much power for one person.”

“But—”

“Mortal.” The word is sharp now, a hint of thunder behind it.

“Give it to him,” Bucky murmurs, and leans down, pressing a soft kiss to Clint’s mouth. “There’s other ways to help people. We can figure it out, together. For now, let’s walk out of this one alive. Because if we go back on this, he’s going to kill us.”

Clint hesitates for a moment longer, and for a second, Bucky thinks he might not do it. But then he’s nodding, and moving around Bucky, taking his hand even as he extends the other one. “Your scepter,” he says to Set, voice steady.

Set reaches out. He seems almost...wary. Nervous, in a way. But after the briefest heartbeat, he takes it, hand closing around the staff with a tight grip. He pulls it from Clint’s hands and holds it upright,

“At last,” he murmurs, and takes in a deep breath as the wind starts to swirl around him. “My freedom. At last.” He looks up, meeting Clint’s eyes. “Break the summoning circle.”

Clint nods. “How?”

“The runes.” Set gestures. “Break one of them.”

Clint backs up, tugging Bucky’s hand and together they climb off the dais. He rubs at some of the paint. It’s still wet, and it only takes him a moment to turn one of them unreadable. “Sorry,” he murmurs to Bucky, who’s already wincing as the paint covers another few of the hieroglyphics. “I know—”

There’s a crack of thunder, and a miniature storm seems to grow inside the temple. “I’d suggest you leave, if you wish to survive.” Set says, his voice rumbling, still growing ever taller. He’s easily over ten feet now, the scepter almost the size of Bucky. “It is time to reclaim what is mine.”

Bucky doesn’t want to know that that means. He grabs Clint’s arm, stopping only to pick up his things before they run out of the temple, racing all the way back to where the trucks were parked. It’s night now, but the moon is bright enough for them to see. Clint dives in one side, Bucky in the other, and they start the engine, driving away as quickly as possible.

“How far do you think—“

“Just drive,” Bucky says, twisting around to watch. There’s a storm cloud brewing above the temple, slowly growing in size. “Maybe a little faster.”

Ten seconds later, there’s a flash of light—brilliant, lighting up the night sky with a searing bolt, and Bucky covers his eyes with a yelp of pain. He’s still blinking away spots as Clint slows the car, coming to a halt so he can turn around too. “You okay?”

“Bright,” Bucky says. “I should—”

A loud rumbling cuts him off. The ground under them shakes with an incredible force, enough that Bucky has to brace himself in the truck. Then there’s a terrific crashing sound, like a thousand rocks tumbling over each other. As Bucky watches, the temple starts to collapse, the statues falling to the side in slow motion, visible even from this distance.

Bucky can’t help the mournful noise he makes. “But it was so _preserved_ ,” he says, and Clint stares at him.

Then he starts laughing. Really laughing, full-on belly laughs with tears running down his face. “You gotta be kidding me,” he says, wiping them with the back of his hand.

“What?”

Clint waves a hand. “We just barely made it out of a deal with a chaos god—and that’s all you have to say? That the temple was preserved?” He laughs again, swiping at his eyes. “You’re _such_ a professor.”

“Don’t be mean,” Bucky says, trying not to sulk. “There was a lot of history there. We could’ve learned so much, it was a complete temple to Set—“

“Buddy, I don’t even wanna _think_ about Egyptians and their gods for the next few years, alright?” Clint puts a hand on his knee, pushing gently until Bucky sits back down, scowling. “I’m gonna travel to the opposite side of the world, honestly. Get as far away from here as possible.”

“I’m pretty sure that would put you in the ocean,” Bucky says.

“Excellent,” Clint says, grinning, and Bucky laughs. “Beach vacation. You in?”

“Sure.” He grins right back, still disappointed, but a little giddy too. They made it out. They’re alive. It’s over.

He briefly wonders if they made a mistake—if there’s something they could’ve done better, or different, and behind the sunny smile, he can tell Clint’s thinking the same thing.

“We’ll deal with it,” he says after a moment. “Whatever happens—we’ll deal with it. Just like we have this past week.”

Clint nods. “We will,” he says, and then looks at Bucky, a hopeful expression stealing over his face. “Together?”

Bucky reaches out, winds their fingers together. “You’re not getting rid of me so easily,” he says, and Clint beams at him.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, and kicks the car into gear. “Let’s get out of here, then. I’ve got sand in places I shouldn’t, and I could really use the world’s longest nap.”

“Sounds like a dream,” Bucky says, and settles in for the drive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whistles quietly and pretends this is still Friday*
> 
> also nobody look too closely at the mythology. please. 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta’ed by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


	12. Chapter Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s sure he’ll get a lecture later, both about his recklessness of the past week, and the fact that Clint is a thief and Bucky should really be with someone more respectable. But he doesn’t care. He’s happy, happier than he has been in a long time, and he’ll take whatever lectures Steve wants if it means he gets to have this.

“That’s a hell of a story,” Steve says. “I mean—”

“We’re aware,” Bucky says, picking up his whiskey. They’re in a fancy restaurant, and he’s drinking accordingly, which means it’s damn good whiskey. “Trust me. We know how it sounds.”

Clint nods, quietly sipping his own. Bucky eyes the bandages on his arm, scowling at the dots of blood against the whiteness. It’s been three days since the temple, and he’d put sutures in them the first night, but Clint keeps using the arm and the sutures keep popping. Bucky’s half-tempted to tie the arm to his side and _make_ him sit still for a bit.

“I’m not sure you do,” Steve says. “I got a call last week that you’d vanished from the Thinis site. I fly out here, going half-out of my mind crazy trying to find you, and then you suddenly ask me to meet you here, dragging a well-known thief with you, and spewing some wild story about summoning gods and Nazis and—”

“Steve,” Bucky interrupts, leaning forward. “This isn’t even the wildest thing I’ve ever come home with. Come on. What about Atlantis?”

Clint stares at him. “You...found Atlantis?”

“Story for another time,” Bucky says, waving a hand. “Think about it, Steve. Atlantis. Heart of the Dragon. The ashes of Nurhachi. This is in _no_ way the wildest thing I’ve ever come home with.”

“You have a point,” Steve admits, and settles back in his chair. His eyes flick over to Clint, and then with a hint of curiosity in his voice, he asks, “So how did you two end up on this trip together?”

“I was going to steal things from the site,” Clint says, no hint of shame to his voice. “But then the Nazis showed up, and things got interesting.” Bucky glares at him, and he offers an innocent smile back. “Didn’t take anything, though. I was very good.”

“I appreciate your restraint,” Bucky says dryly.

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to the dean.”

“Just remind him about last Thanksgiving, and how I saved the entire history department from complete and utter embarrassment. He won’t ask questions after that.”

“Oh, yeah.” Steve nods. “That’ll do.”

Clint looks between them. “What?”

“Story for another time,” Bucky says.

He smiles, slow and wide. “You keep saying that. You realize I’m going to stick around until they’re all told, right?”

“You’ll be around a long while,” Bucky says, his own mouth turning up. “I’ve got a lot of stories.”

“Oh no,” Clint says dryly. “What a _tragedy_.”

Steve looks confused, but when Bucky meets his eyes, there’s a flash of understanding in them. Steve knows about him—has ever since they were kids, and Bucky tried to kiss him—but he’s never thought less of Bucky for it, never teased him or made him feel like less of a man for it.

He’s sure he’ll get a lecture later, both about his recklessness of the past week, and the fact that Clint is a thief and Bucky should really be with someone more respectable. But he doesn’t care. He’s _happy_ , happier than he has been in a long time, and he’ll take whatever lectures Steve wants if it means he gets to have this.

“I’m going to go talk with Dr. Wilson,” Steve says, getting up. “They’re in a frenzy because the funding for the dig is suddenly vanishing.” He pauses. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

Bucky grimaces. “Maybe,” he says, and Steve sighs. “Can’t the college help?”

“I’m working on it. Have to work something out with the dean, if we’re going to help. Shake hands with a couple universities here and there. There’s a man at Oxford who wants to help.” He sighs, rubs his face. “It won’t be anywhere near the level it was before, but I’m hoping we can keep it going for another year.”

“I can help,” Clint says suddenly, and Bucky glances at him. “And I know people that can help. I’m pretty connected in certain circles.”

“With thieves?” Steve asks, skeptical. “I don’t know that we need that kind of backing—”

“I didn’t sell everything,” Clint says, sounding a little irritated. “I put stuff in museums too, you know. I’ve filled a couple cases in _Museo Larco_.”

Steve looks shocked. “You’ve been to Lima?”

“I’ve been everywhere,” Clint says. “Busy life. Point being, I might be able to get some help too.” He smirks a little. “I promise not to steal anything from the site.”

Steve does not look convinced, but after a moment, he nods and offers a hand. “I’d appreciate any help, honestly. And it was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Barton.”

Clint shakes it. “Same.”

Bucky gets up and pulls Steve into a tight hug. “Thanks for coming after me,” he says. “I know I worried you, and I’m sorry.”

That gets him a crooked smile when Steve pulls back. “You saved my ass a whole bunch of times,” he points out. “Nice to return the favor for once.”

Bucky grins at him, claps him on the shoulder. “See you back at home?”

“Yeah,” Steve says, and picks up his hat, waving his way through the tables.

Clint watches him leave, leaning back in the chair. “You’re not going back to the dig site?”

Bucky shakes his head. “It’s been a long week,” he says. “I’m tired. I’d like to take a few days off.” He sits back down, picks up his drink. “Like you said—do something not involving Egyptian gods for a little bit.” He doesn’t know if Set has any particular interest in them, but he feels like getting out of Egypt might not be a bad idea. At least for a few months. Go to the other side of the world, get away from it all for a time. Let the dust settle.

Clint sips at his own drink, expression pensive. “Do you think we made a mistake?” he asks eventually. “Giving the scepter to him.”

“I don’t think we had a choice,” Bucky says. “I mean—he was going to kill us. Or me, at least. You might’ve been okay.”

Clint shakes his head. “He probably would’ve collapsed the temple on my head.”

Bucky nods. “I don’t know, honestly. If we made a mistake or not. I think we made the best choice we could at the moment.”

The glass clinks as he sets it on the table, rotating it slowly on the wood. Clint watches it, eyes focused on the way the light is playing off the edge of the glass. “I suppose,” he says after a moment. “I mean—you’re right. I don’t know what else we could’ve done.” He bites his lip, then looks up at Bucky. “I keep hearing them. In my sleep.”

He doesn’t have to clarify. Bucky knows exactly what he’s talking about. “So do I,” he says softly. “It’s awful.”

“I didn’t want that to happen,” Clint says. “I knew they were going to die, but to die like _that_ —I didn’t want that at all.” He swallows, rubs his hand over his face. “I feel like shit about it.”

“They would’ve killed us, you know.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

No. It doesn’t.

Clint’s other hand is resting on the table. Bucky wants to take it, but he doesn’t. This isn’t a good place for that kind of affection, and the last thing he wants is to call someone down on them.

Instead, he reaches over and grabs the bottle of whiskey, then refills Clint’s glass. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly.

“Aren’t we all,” Clint murmurs, brushing his fingers over the back of Bucky’s hand. Then he picks up the glass, shifting back into his usual sunny smile. “So. What’s the plan after this?”

“I’m—”

A waiter appears at his elbow. “Mr. Barton?”

Clint startles, looks up. “Yes?”

“I have a phone call for you.”

Clint stares at him for a moment, then shrugs and gets up. “Back in a moment, I guess,” he says to Bucky, and follows the waiter.

Bucky sips his whiskey, checking out the rest of the patrons. He looks very out of place here, in his field clothes, whip coiled at his side and gun holster strapped on. But this is where Steve had wanted to meet, and so this is what he came in. He looks better than Clint, at least, who’d gotten into a fight on the way over when he’d bumped into a very large, very drunk man. Bucky’d had to drag him out of the fray, sporting a split lip and a black eye, protesting about how he’d only stepped into the man’s path to avoid being run over by a car.

_Chaos_ , he thinks, and can’t help but smile, swirling his whiskey around.

Clint comes back a short time later and drops into his seat. “That was Natasha,” he says, and Bucky raises an eyebrow. “She has a job for me.”

“A job?”

“Something to find.” Clint runs his finger around the rim of his glass and meets Bucky’s eyes. “You know about the Holy Grail, right?”

“As in the cup of Christ? Yes, more than I ever wanted to.”

“As in the cup of Christ, yes.” Clint tilts his head. “She thinks she’s got a lead on it. Somewhere in Italy. She’s been talking to a guy who’s been working on this for decades. Name of Henry Jones.” He shrugs. “Apparently this is his life’s obsession, or whatever.” He takes a napkin out of his pocket with some messily scrawled numbers on it and slides it across the table. “Coordinates for a meeting point with him in Italy.”

“That so?” Bucky pulls it over, studies the numbers. “I know Dr. Jones. He’s worked with my father on occasion. They’re both Grail seekers.”

“Of _course_ you know him,” Clint says. “Anyway. She said it was urgent, and we weren’t the only ones looking.” There’s a hint of something else in his voice. A hidden plea in the way his eyes are fixed on Bucky’s face, fingers fidgeting with his whiskey glass.

“For the Holy Grail? Yeah, no kidding. People have been searching for it for centuries.” Bucky picks up his own glass. “So what are you asking, Clint?”

“I know you have your own thing,” Clint says. “With the college. And I know what I do and what you do don’t exactly...mix well together. But for what it’s worth, I’ve liked spending time with you.” He leans forward. “We made a hell of a team, you and I.”

“We did,” Bucky agrees. “But you’re right—I’m in the business of preserving history, not selling it.”

“Well,” Clint says, and there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “I’ve been thinking about going straight, you know. Maybe all I need is a good influence to help me figure out the rest of it.” He leans forward, eyes sparkling with amusement. “Wanna be my good influence?”

Bucky sips his whiskey and thinks. “Well,” he says after a long moment. “I mean—I am technically still on sabbatical. And like I said to Steve—the department owes me a lot. Really, I could take off as much time as I want.”

“Yeah,” Clint says. “And really, it would just be the ethical thing to do. If you go with me, you can make sure that I’m sticking to the straight and narrow, you know? Otherwise who knows what’ll happen.”

Bucky grins. “You’re incorrigible, you know that?”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“Means yes.” Bucky sets his glass down. “I’ll go with you.”

Clint blinks, like he didn’t expect him to say yes at all. Then a slow smile spreads across his face, a brilliant burst of happiness that almost takes Bucky’s breath away. He dives forward, presses a whiskey-flavored kiss against Bucky’s mouth, pulling back so quickly that Bucky half-thinks he imagined it.

“It’s gonna be chaos,” he warns. “Just saying.”

“I expect nothing less from you.”

“Good,” Clint says. “Just wanna make sure you’re prepared.” He tosses back the rest of his whiskey and stands up. “Shall we, then?”

“After you,” Bucky says, doing the same. He grabs his jacket, tosses his hat back on his head, and follows Clint out of the restaurant into the warm night air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who came on this wild-ass journey, thank you for reading! I appreciate each and every one of you <3 
> 
> I'm on [tumblr!](https://feedmecookiesnow.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Beta’ed by [flowerparrish](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/flowerparrish). Thank you!


End file.
